THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

James  J.  McBride 

PRESENTED  BY 

Margaret  McBride 


5 


,lv 


What  the  Critics  say  of 

Chip  of  the   Flying  U 

By  B.  M.  BOWER. 


" '  Chip '  is  all  right.    Better  than  '  The  Virginian.1 " 

— Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  The  name  of  B.  M.  Bower  will  stand  for  something  readable  in 
the  estimation  of  every  man,  and  most  every  woman,  who  reads  this  fine 
new  story  of  Montana  ranch  andjts  dwellers." — Publisher  &>  Retailer. 

"  Its  qualities  and  merit  can  be  summed  up  in  the  brief  but  suffi- 
cient statement  that  it  is  thoroughly  delightful." 

— Albany  Times- Union. 

"  For  strength  of  interest,  vivid  description,  clever  and  convincing 
character,  drawing  and  literary  merit  it  is  the  surprise  of  the  year." 

—  Walden's  Stationer  and  Printer. 

"It  is  an  appealing  story  told  in  an  active  style  which  fairly 
sparkles  in  reproducing  the  atmosphere  of  the  wild  and  woolly  West.  It 
is  consistently  forceful  and  contains  a  quantity  of  refreshing  comedy." 

— Philadelphia  Press. 
"  Bound  to  stand  among  the  famous  novels  of  the  year." 

— Baltimore  American. 

1 '  The  Virginian '  has  found  many  imitators,  but  few  authors  have 
come  as  near  duplicating  Owen  Wister's  magnetic  hero  as  has  B.  M. 
Bower,  '  Chip  of  the  Flying  U.'  "—Philadelphia  Item. 

"B.  M.  Bower  has  portrayed  but  few  characters,  but  these  »^e  has 
pictured  with  the  strong  and  yet  delicate  stroke  of  a  true  master.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  West  is  perfect ;  one  sees  and  feels  the  vibrmnt,  vital 
life  of  the  ranch  activities  all  through  the  telling  of  the  story." 

— Cincinnati  Times- Star. 

It  brims  over  with  humor  showing  the  bright  and  laughing  side  of 
ranch  life.     It  is  a  story  which  will  delightfully  entertain  the  reader." 

— Portland  Journal. 

"  The  story  contains  strength  of  interest,  vivid  descriptions,  clever 
1  convincing  character  drawing  and  literary  merits,  and  the  author  lays 
Jlors  with  a  master's  touch."— Albany  Evening  fournal. 

I2mo,  Cloth  Bound,  Color  Illustrations,  $f35 

G.  W.  DILUNGHAM  CO.,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


•She  turned  her  back  on  me,  and  went  imperturbably 

on  with  her  sketching."  Page  81 

Frontispiece 


THE  RANGE 
D  WE  LL  ERS 


BY 

B.    M.    BOWER 

(B.  M.  Sinclair) 

AUTHOR   OF 

"CHIP,  OF  THE  FLYING  U,"  ETC 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

CHARLES   M.   RUSSELL 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


Copyright,  1906, 
By  STREET  &  SMITH 

Copyright,    1907 
By  G.  W.  Dillingham  Company 

Issued  Feb.,  IQOJ 
The  Range  Dweller* 


3503 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.  The  Reward  of  Folly    . 

II.  The  White  Divide     . 

III.  The  Quarrel  Renewed  .        . 

IV.  Through  King's  Highway         .        . 

V.  Into  the  Lion's  Mouth  .        . 

VI.  I  ask  Beryl  King  to  Dance 

VII.  One  Day  Too  Late 

VIII.  A  Fight  and  a  Race  for  Life    . 

IX.  The  Old  Life— and  the  New 

X.  I  Shake  Hands  with  Old  Man  King 

XI.  A  Cable  Snaps      .... 

XII.  I  Begin  to  Realize  . 

XIII.  We  Meet  Once  More 

XIV.  Frosty  Disappears  .        .        , 

XV.  The  Broken  Motor-car  .        ,        . 

XVI.  One  More  Race         .        .        .        . 

XVII.  The  Final  Reckoning    . 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

FAGl 

"  She  turned  her  back  on  me,  and  went  imperturbably  on  with 
her  sketching  "          .....    Frontispiece     81 

«'  Hi»  hind  feet   caught   the   top   wire   and   snapped   it  like 
thread" 91 

"  Frosty  still  stood  where  I  had  left  him,  looking  down  at  the 
gray  horse"   .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .     143 


THE  RANGE 

DWELLERS. 

CHAPTER  i. 

The  Reward  of  Folly. 

I'm  something  like  the  old  maid  you  read  about 
— the  one  who  always  knows  all  about  babies  and 
just  how  to  bring  them  up  to  righteous  maturity; 
I've  got  a  mighty  strong  conviction  that  I  know 
heaps  that  my  dad  never  thought  of  about  the 
proper  training  for  a  healthy  male  human.  I  don't 
suppose  I'll  ever  have  a  chance  to  demonstrate  my 
wisdom,  but,  if  I  do,  there  are  a  few  things  that 
won't  happen  to  my  boy. 

If  I've  got  a  comfortable  wad  of  my  own,  the 
boy  shall  have  his  fun  without  any  nagging,  so 
long  as  he  keeps  clean  and  honest.  He  shall  go  to 
any  college  he  may  choose — and  right  here  is  where 
my  wisdom  will  sit  up  and  get  busy.  If  I'm  fool 

ii 


The     Range     Dwellers 

enough  to  let  that  kid  have  more  money  than  is 
healthy  for  him,  and  if  I  go  to  sleep  while  he's 
wising  up  to  the  art  of  making  it  fade  away  without 
leaving  anything  behind  to  tell  the  tale,  and  learning 
a  lot  of  habits  that  aren't  doing  him  any  good,  I 
won't  come  down  on  him  with  both  feet  and  tell 
him  all  the  different  brands  of  fool  he's  been,  and 
mourn  because  the  Lord  in  His  mercy  laid  upon  me 
this  burden  of  an  unregenerate  son.  I  shall  try  and 
remember  that  he's  the  son  of  his  father,  and  not 
expect  too  much  of  him.  It's  long  odds  I  shall  find 
points  of  resemblance  a-plenty  between  us — and  the 
more  cussedness  he  develops,  the  more  I  shall  see 
myself  in  him  reflected. 

I  don't  mean  to  be  hard  on  dad.  He  was  always 
good  to  me,  in  his  way.  He's  got  more  things  than 
a  son  to  look  after,  and  as  that  son  is  supposed  to 
have  a  normal  allowance  of  gray  matter  and  is  no 
physical  weakling,  he  probably  took  it  for  granted 
that  the  son  could  look  after  himself — which  the 
mines  and  railroads  and  ranches  that  represent  his 
millions  can't. 

12 


The     Range     Dwellers 

But  it  wasn't  giving  me  a  square  deal.  He  gave 
me  an  allowance  and  paid  my  debts  besides,  and  let 
me  amble  through  school  at  my  own  gait — which 
wasn't  exactly  slow — and  afterward  let  me  go.  If 
I  do  say  it,  I  had  lived  a  fairly  decent  sort  of  life. 
I  belonged  to  some  good  clubs — athletic,  mostly — 
and  trained  regularly,  and  was  called  a  fair  boxer 
among  the  amateurs.  I  could  tell  to  a  glass — after 
a  lot  of  practise — just  how  much  of  'steen  different 
brands  I  could  take  without  getting  foolish,  and  I 
could  play  poker  and  win  once  in  awhile.  I  had  a 
steam-yacht  and  a  motor  of  my  own,  and  it  was 
generally  stripped  to  racing  trim.  And  I  wasn't 
tangled  up  with  any  women;  actress-worship  had 
never  appealed  to  me.  My  tastes  all  went  to  the 
sporting  side  of  life  and  left  women  to  the  fellows 
with  less  nerve  and  more  sentiment. 

So  I  had  lived  for  twenty-five  years — just  hav- 
ing the  best  time  a  fellow  with  an  unlimited  re- 
source can  have,  if  he  is  healthy. 

It  was  then,  on  my  twenty-fifth  birthday,  that  I 
walked  into  dad's  private  library  with  a  sonly  smile, 

13 


The     Range     Dwellers 

ready  for  the  good  wishes  and  the  check  that  I  was 
in  the  habit  of  getting — I'd  been  unlucky,  and  Lord 
knows  I  needed  it! — and  what  does  the  dear  man 
do? 

Instead  of  one  check,  he  handed  me  a  ?  -af  of 
them,  each  stamped  in  divers  places  by  divers  b^  1-s. 
I  flipped  the  ends  and  looked  them  over  a  bit,  be- 
cause I  saw  that  was  what  he  expected  of  me;  but 
the  truth  is,  checks  don't  interest  me  much  after 
they've  been  messed  up  with  red  and  green  stamps. 
They're  about  as  enticing  as  a  last  year's  popular 
song. 

Dad  crossed  his  legs,  matched  his  finger-tips  to- 
gether, and  looked  at  me  over  his  glasses.  Many 
a  man  knows  that  attitude  and  that  look,  and  so 
many  a  man  has  been  as  uncomfortable  as  I  began 
to  be,  and  has  felt  as  keen  a  sense  of  impending 
trouble.  I  began  immediately  searching  my  mem- 
ory for  some  especial  brand  of  devilment  that  I'd 
been  sampling,  but  there  was  nothing  doing.  I  had 
been  losing  some  at  poker  lately,  and  I'd  been  away 
to  the  bad  out  at  Ingleside;  still,  I  looked  him 

14 


The     Range     Dwellers 

innocently  in  the  eye  and  wondered  what  was 
coming. 

"That  last  check  is  worthy  of  particular  atten- 
tion," he  said  dryly.  "The  others  are  remarkable 
only  iik  their  size  and  continuity  of  numbers;  but 
that  last  one  should  be  framed  and  hung  upon  the 
wall  at  the  foot  of  your  bed,  though  you  would  not 
see  it  often.  I  consider  it  a  diploma  of  your  quali- 
fication as  Master  Jackanapes."  (Dad's  vocabulary, 
when  he  is  angry,  contains  some  rather  strengthy 
words  of  the  old-fashioned  type.) 

I  looked  at  the  check  and  began  to  see  light.  I 
had  been  a  bit  rollicky  that  time.  It  wasn't  drawn 
for  very  much,  that  check;  I've  lost  more  on  one 
jack-pot,  many  a  time,  and  thought  nothing  of  it. 
And,  though  the  events  leading  up  to  it  were  a  bit 
rapid  and  undignified,  perhaps,  I  couldn't  see  any- 
thing to  get  excited  over,  as  I  could  see  dad  plainly 
was. 

"For  a  young  man  twenty-five  years  old  and  with 
brains  enough — supposedly — to  keep  out  of  the 
feeble-minded  class,  it  strikes  me  you  indulge  in 

15 


The     Range     Dwellers 

some  damned  poor  pastimes,"  went  on  dad  dis- 
agreeably. "Cracking  champagne-bottles  in  front 
of  the  Cliff  House — on  a  Sunday  at  that — may  be 
diverting  to  the  bystanders,  but  it  can  hardly  be 
called  dignified,  and  I  fail  to  see  how  it  is  going  to 
fit  a  man  for  any  useful  business." 

Business  ?  Lord !  dad  never  had  mentioned  a  use- 
ful business  to  me  before.  I  felt  my  eyelids  fly  up; 
this  was  springing  birthday  surprises  with  a 
vengeance. 

"Driving  an  automobile  on  forbidden  roads,  be- 
ing arrested  and  fined — on  Sunday,  at  that " 

"Now,  look  here,  dad,"  I  cut  in,  getting  a  bit  hot 
under  the  collar  myself,  "by  all  the  laws  of  nature, 
there  must  have  been  a  time  when  you  were  twenty- 
five  years  old  and  cut  a  little  swath  of  your  own. 
And,  seeing  you're  as  big  as  your  offspring — six- 
feet-one,  and  you  can't  deny  it — and  fairly  husky 
for  a  man  of  your  age,  I'll  bet  all  you  dare  that  said 
swath  was  not  of  the  narrow-gage  variety.  I've 
never  heard  of  your  teaching  a  class  in  any  Sunday- 
school,  and  if  you  never  drove  your  machine  beyond 

16 


The     Range     Dwellers 

the  dead-line  and  cracked  champagne-bottles  on  the 
wheels  in  front  of  the  Cliff  House,  it's  because  auto- 
mobiles weren't  invented  and  Cliff  House  wasn't 
built.  Begging  your  pardon,  dad — I'll  bet  you  were 
a  pretty  rollicky  young  blade,  yourself." 

Now  dad  is  very  old-fashioned  in  some  of  his 
notions ;  one  of  them  is  that  a  parent  may  hand  out 
a  roast  that  will  frizzle  the  foliage  for  blocks 
around,  and,  guilty  or  innocent,  the  son  must  take 
it,  as  he'd  take  cod-liver  oil — it's-nasty-but-good- 
for-what-ails-you.  He  snapped  his  mouth  shut,  and, 
being  his  son  and  having  that  habit  myself,  I  recog- 
nized the  symptoms  and  judged  that  things  would 
presently  grow  interesting. 

I  was  betting  on  a  full-house.  The  atmosphere 
grew  tense.  I  heard  a  lot  of  things  in  the  next  five 
minutes  that  no  one  but  my  dad  could  say  without 
me  trying  mighty  hard  to  make  him  swallow  them. 
And  I  just  sat  there  and  looked  at  him  and  took  it. 

I  couldn't  agree  with  him  that  I'd  committed  a 
grievous  crime.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  lark,  as  larks 
go:  just  an  incident  at  the  close  of  a  rather  full 

17 


The     Range     Dwellers 

afternoon.  Coming  around  up  the  beach  from1 
Ingleside  House  a  few  days  before,  in  the  Yellow 
Peril — my  machine — we  got  to  badgering  each  other 
about  doing  things  not  orthodox.  At  last  Barney 
MacTague  dared  me  to  drive  the  Yellow  Peril  past 
the  dead-line — down  by  the  Pavilion — and  on  up 
the  hill  to  Sutro  Baths.  Naturally,  I  couldn't  take 
a  dare  like  that,  and  went  him  one  better ;  I  told  him 
I'd  not  only  drive  to  the  very  top  of  the  hill,  but  I'd 
stop  at  the  Cliff  House  and  crack  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne on  each  wheel  of  the  Yellow  Peril,  in  honor 
of  the  occasion;  that  would  make  a  bottle  apiece, 
for  there  were  four  of  us  along. 

It  was  done,  to  the  delight  of  the  usual  Sunday 
crowd  of  brides,  grooms,  tourists,  and  kids.  A 
mounted  policeman  interviewed  us,  to  the  further 
delight  of  the  crowd,  and  invited  us  to  call  upon  a 
certain  judge  whom  none  of  us  knew.  We  did  so, 
and  dad  was  good  enough  to  pay  the  fine,  which, 
as  I  said  before,  was  not  much.  I've  had  less  fun 
for  more  money,  often. 

Dad  didn't  say  anything  at  the  time,  so  I  was 
18 


The     Range     Dwellers 

not  looking  for  the  roast  I  was  getting.  It  ap- 
peared, from  his  view-point,  that  I  was  about  as  use- 
less, imbecile,  and  utterly  no-account  a  son  as  a 
man  ever  had,  and  if  there  was  anything  good  in 
me  it  was  not  visible  except  under  a  strong  magnify  - 
ing-glass. 

He  said,  among  other  things  too  painful  to  men- 
tion, that  he  was  getting  old — dad  is  about  fifty- 
six — and  that  if  I  didn't  buck  up  and  amount  to 
something  soon,  he  didn't  know  what  was  to  become 
of  the  business. 

Then  he  delivered  the  knockout  blow  that  he'd 
been  working  up  to.  He  was  going  to  see  what 
there  was  in  me,  he  said.  He  would  pay  my  bills, 
and,  as  a  birthday  gift,  he  would  present  me  with  a 
through  ticket  to  Osage,  in  Montana — where  he 
owned  a  ranch  called  the  Bay  State — and  a  stock - 
saddle,  spurs,  chaps,  and  a  hundred  dollars.  After 
that  I  must  work  out  my  own  salvation — or  the 
other  thing.  If  I  wanted  more  money  inside  a  year 
or  two,  I  would  have  to  work  for  it  just  as  if  I  were 
an  orphan  without  a  dad  who  writes  checks  on  de- 

'9 


The     Range     Dwellers 

mand.  He  said  that  there  was  always  something 
to  do  on  the  Bay  State  Ranch — which  is  one  of 
dad's  places.  I  could  do  as  I  pleased,  he  said,  but 
he'd  advise  me  to  buckle  down  and  learn  something 
about  cattle.  It  was  plain  I  never  would  amount  to 
anything  in  an  office.  He  laid  a  yard  or  two  of 
ticket  on  the  table  at  my  elbow,  and  on  top  of  that 
a  check  for  one  hundred  dollars,  payable  to  one 
Ellis  Carleton. 

I  took  up  the  check  and  read  every  word  on  it 
twice — not  because  I  needed  to;  I  was  playing  for 
time  to  think.  Then  I  twisted  it  up  in  a  taper,  held 
it  to  the  blaze  in  the  fireplace,  and  lighted  a  ciga- 
rette with  it.  Dad  kept  his  finger-tips  together  and 
watched  me  without  any  expression  whatsoever  in 
his  face.  I  took  three  deliberate  puffs,  picked  up 
the  ticket,  and  glanced  along  down  its  dirty  green 
length.  Dad  never  moved  a  muscle,  and  I  remem- 
ber the  clock  got  to  ticking  louder  than  I'd  ever 
heard  it  in  my  life  before.  I  may  as  well  be  per- 
fectly honest !  that  ticket  did  not  appeal  to  me  a  lit- 
tle bit.  I  think  he  expected  to  see  that  go  up  in 

20 


The     Range     Dwellers 

smoke,  also.  But,  though  I'm  pretty  much  of  a 
fool  at  times,  I  believe  there  are  lucid  intervals 
when  I  recognize  certain  objects — such  as  justice. 
I  knew  that,  in  the  main,  dad  was  right.  I  had 
been  leading  a  rather  reckless  existence,  and  I  was 
getting  pretty  old  for  such  kid  foolishness.  He  had 
measured  out  the  dose,  and  I  meant  to  swallow  it 
without  whining — but  it  was  exceeding  bitter  to  the 
palate ! 

"I  see  the  ticket  is  dated  twenty-four  hours 
ahead,"  I  said  as  calmly  as  I  knew  how,  "which 
gives  me  time  to  have  Rankin  pack  a  few  duds. 
I  hope  the  outfit  you  furnish  includes  a  red  silk 
handkerchief  and  a  Colt's  .44  revolver,  and  a  key  to 
the  proper  method  of  slaying  acquaintances  in  the 
West.  I  hate  to  start  in  with  all  white  chips." 

"You  probably  mean  a  Colt's  .45,"  said  dad,  with 
a  more  convincing  calmness  than  I  could  show.  "It 
shall  be  provided.  As  to  the  key,  you  will  no  doubt 
find  that  on  the  ground  when  you  arrive." 

"Very  well,"  I  replied,  getting  up  and  stretching 

21 


The     Range     Dwellers 

my  arms  up  as  high  as  I  could  reach — which  was 
beastly  manners,  of  course,  but  a  safe  vent  for  my 
feelings,  which  cried  out  for  something  or  somebody 
to  punch.  "You've  called  the  turn,  and  I'll  go.  It 
may  be  many  moons  ere  we  two  meet  again — and 
when  we  do,  the  crime  of  cracking  my  own  cham- 
pagne— for  I  paid  for  it,  you  know — on  my  own 
automobile  wheels  may  not  seem  the  heinous  thing 
it  looks  now.  See  you  later,  dad." 

I  walked  out  with  my  head  high  in  the  air  and 
my  spirits  rather  low,  if  the  truth  must  be  told. 
Dad  was  generally  kind  and  wise  and  generous, 
but  he  certainly  did  break  out  in  unexpected  places 
sometimes.  Going  to  the  Bay  State  Ranch,  just  at 
that  time,  was  not  a  cheerful  prospect.  San  Fran- 
cisco and  Seattle  were  just  starting  a  series  of  ball- 
games  that  promised  to  be  rather  swift,  and  I'd  got 
a  lot  up  on  the  result.  I  hated  to  go  just  then. 
And  Montana  has  the  reputation  of  being  rather 
beastly  in  early  March — I  knew  that  much. 

I  caught  a  car  down  to  the  Olympic,  hunted  up 
Barney  MacTague,  and  played  poker  with  him  till 

22 


The     Range     Dwellers 

two  o'clock  that  night,  and  never  once  mentioned  the 
trip  I  was  contemplating.  Then  I  went  home, 
routed  up  my  man,  and  told  him  what  to  pack,  and 
went  to  bed  for  a  few  hours;  if  there  was  any- 
thing pleasant  in  my  surroundings  that  I  failed  to 
think  of  as  I  lay  there,  it  must  be  very  trivial  indeed. 
I  even  went  so  far  as  to  regret  leaving  Ethel  Maple- 
ton,  whom  I  cared  nothing  for. 

And  above  all  and  beneath  all,  hanging  in  the 
background  of  my  mind  and  dodging  forward  in- 
sistently in  spite  of  myself,  was  a  deep  resentment 
— a  soreness  against  dad  for  the  way  he  had  served 
me.  Granted  I  was  wild  and  a  useless  cumberer 
of  civilization;  I  was  only  what  my  environments 
had  made  me.  Dad  had  let  me  run,  and  he  had 
never  kicked  on  the  price  of  my  folly,  or  tried  to 
pull  me  up  at  the  start.  He  had  given  his  time 
to  his  mines  and  his  cattle-ranches  and  railroads, 
and  had  left  his  only  son  to  go  to  the  devil  if  he 
chose  and  at  his  own  pace.  Then,  because  the  son 
had  come  near  making  a  thorough  job  of  it,  he  had 
done — this.  I  felt  hardly  used  and  at  odds  with 

23 


The     Range     Dwellers 

life,  during  those  last  few  hours  in  the  little  old 
burgh. 

All  the  next  day  I  went  the  pace  as  usual  with 
the  gang,  and  at  seven,  after  an  early  dinner,  caught 
a  down-town  car  and  set  off  alone  to  the  ferry.  I 
had  not  seen  dad  since  I  left  him  in  the  library,  and 
I  did  not  particularly  wish  to  see  him,  either.  Pos- 
sibly I  had  some  unfilial  notion  of  making  him 
ashamed  and  sorry.  It  is  even  possible  that  I  half- 
expected  him  to  come  and  apologize,  and  offer  to 
let  things  go  on  in  the  old  way.  In  that  event  I 
was  prepared  to  be  chesty.  I  would  look  at  him 
coldly  and  say:  "You  have  seen  fit  to  buy  me  a 
ticket  to  Osage,  Montana.  So  be  it ;  to  Osage,  Mon- 
tana, am  I  bound."  Oh,  I  had  it  all  fixed ! 

Dad  came  into  the  ferry  waiting-room  just  as  the 
passengers  were  pouring  off  the  boat,  and  sat  down 
beside  me  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  He  did  not 
look  sad,  or  contrite,  or  ashamed — not,  at  least, 
enough  to  notice.  He  glanced  at  his  watch,  and 
then  handed  me  a  letter. 

"There,"  he  began  briskly,  "that  is  to  Perry  Pot- 
24 


The     Range     Dwellers 

ter,  the  Bay  State  foreman.  I  have  wired  him  that 
you  are  on  the  way." 

The  gate  went  up  at  that  moment,  and  he  stood 
up  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Sorry  I  can't  go  over 
with  you,"  he  said.  "I've  an  important  meeting  to 
attend.  Take  care  of  yourself,  Ellie  boy." 

I  gripped  his  hand  warmly,  though  I  had  in- 
tended to  give  him  a  dead-fish  sort  of  shake.  After 
all,  he  was  my  dad,  and  there  were  just  us  two.  I 
picked  up  my  suit-case  and  started  for  the  gate.  I 
looked  back  once,  and  saw  dad  standing  there  gaz- 
ing after  me — and  he  did  not  look  particularly  brisk. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  dad  cared  more  than  he  let  on. 
It's  a  way  the  Carletons  have,  I  have  heard. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  White  Divide. 

If  a  phrenologist  should  undertake  to  "read"  my 
head,  he  would  undoubtedly  find  my  love  of  home — 
if  that  is  what  it  is  called — a  sharply  defined  welt. 
I  know  that  I  watched  the  lights  of  old  Frisco  slip 
behind  me  with  as  virulent  a  case  of  the  deeps  as 
often  comes  to  a  man  when  his  digestion  is  good. 
It  wasn't  that  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  hard- 
ship ;  I've  taken  hunting  trips  up  into  the  mountains 
more  times  than  I  can  remember,  and  ate  ungodly 
messes  of  my  own  invention,  and  waded  waist-deep 
in  snow  and  slept  under  the  stars,  and  enjoyed 
nearly  every  minute.  So  it  wasn't  the  hardships 
that  I  had  every  reason  to  expect  that  got  me  down. 
I  think  it  was  the  feeling  that  dad  had  turned  me 
down ;  that  I  was  in  exile,  and — in  his  eyes,  at  least 
— disgraced,  it  was  knowing  that  he  thought  me 
pretty  poor  truck,  without  giving  me  a  chance  to  be 

26 


The     Range     Dwellers 

anything  better.  I  humped  over  the  rail  at  the 
stern,  and  watched  the  waves  slap  at  us  viciously, 
like  an  ill-tempered  poodle,  and  felt  for  all  the  world 
like  a  dog  that's  been  kicked  out  into  the  rain. 
Maybe  the  medicine  was  good  for  me,  but  it  wasn't 
pleasant.  It  never  occurred  to  me,  that  night,  to 
wonder  how  dad  felt  about  it ;  but  I've  often  thought 
of  it  since. 

I  had  a  section  to  myself,  so  I  could  sulk  undis- 
turbed ;  dad  was  not  small,  at  any  rate,  and,  though 
he  hadn't  let  me  have  his  car,  he  meant  me  to  be 
decently  comfortable.  That  first  night  I  slept  with- 
out a  break;  the  second  I  sat  in  the  smoker  till  a 
most  unrighteous  hour,  cultivating  the  acquaintance 
of  a  drummer  for  a  rubber-goods  outfit.  I  thought 
that,  seeing  I  was  about  to  mingle  with  the  working 
classes,  I  couldn't  begin  too  soon  to  study  them. 
He  was  a  pretty  good  sort,  too. 

The  rubber-goods  man  left  me  at  Seattle,  and 
from  there  on  I  was  at  the  tender  mercies  of  my 
own  thoughts  and  an  elderly  lady  with  a  startlingly 
blond  daughter,  who  sat  directly  opposite  me  and 

27 


The     Range     Dwellers 

was  frankly  disposed  to  friendliness.  I  had  never 
given  much  time  to  the  study  of  women,  and  so  had 
no  alternative  but  to  answer  questions  and  smile 
fatuously  upon  the  blond  daughter,  and  wonder  if 
I  ought  to  warn  the  mother  that  "clothes  do  not 
make  the  man,"  and  that  I  was  a  black  sheep  and 
not  a  desirable  acquaintance.  Before  I  had  quite 
settled  that  point,  they  left  the  train.  I  am  afraid 
I  am  not  distinctly  a  chivalrous  person;  I  hummed 
the  Doxology  after  their  retreating  forms  and  re- 
tired into  myself,  with  a  feeling  that  my  own  so- 
ciety is  at  times  desirable  and  greatly  to  be  chosen. 
After  that  I  was  shy,  and  nothing  happened  ex- 
cept that  on  the  last  evening  of  the  trip,  I  gave  up 
my  sole  remaining  five  dollars  in  the  diner,  and 
walked  out  whistling  softly.  I  was  utterly  and 
unequivocally  strapped.  I  went  into  the  smoker  to 
think  it  over;  I  knew  I  had  started  out  with  a  hun^ 
dred  or  so,  and  that  I  had  considered  that  sufficient 
to  see  me  through.  Plainly,  it  was  not  sufficient; 
but  it  is  a  fact  that  I  looked  upon  it  as  a  joke,  and 
went  to  sleep  grinning  idiotically  at  the  thought  of 

28 


me,  Ellis  Carleton,  heir  to  almost  as  many  millions 
as  I  was  years  old,  without  the  price  of  a  breakfast 
in  his  pocket.  It  seemed  novel  and  interesting,  and 
I  rather  enjoyed  the  situation.  I  wasn't  hungry, 
then! 

Osage,  Montana,  failed  to  rouse  any  enthusiasm 
in  me  when  I  saw  the  place  next  day,  except  that  it 
offered  possibilities  in  the  way  of  eating — at  least, 
I  fancied  it  did,  until  I  stepped  down  upon  the  nar- 
row platform  and  looked  about  me.  It  was  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  had  fasted  since  din- 
ner the  evening  before.  I  was  not  happy. 

I  began  to  see  where  I  might  have  economized  a 
bit,  and  so  have  gone  on  eating  regularly  to  the  end 
of  the  journey.  I  reflected  that  stewed  terrapin,  for 
instance,  might  possibly  be  considered  an  extrava- 
gance under  the  circumstances;  and  a  fellow  sen- 
tenced to  honest  toil  and  exiled  to  the  wilderness 
should  not,  it  seemed  to  me  then,  cause  his  table 
to  be  sprinkled,  quite  so  liberally  as  I  had  done,  with 
tall  glasses — nor  need  he  tip  the  porter  quite  so 


The     Range     Dwellers 

often  or  so  generously.  A  dollar  looked  bigger  to 
me,  just  then,  than  a  wheel  of  the  Yellow  Peril.  I 
began  to  feel  unkindly  toward  that  porter!  he  had 
looked  so  abominably  well-fed  and  sleek,  and  he 
had  tips  that  I  would  be  glad  to  feel  in  my  own 
pocket  again.  I  stood  alone  upon  the  platform  and 
gazed  wistfully  after  the  retreating  train ;  many  peo- 
ple have  done  that  before  me,  if  one  may  believe 
those  who  write  novels,  and  for  once  in  my  life  I 
felt  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  us.  It's  safe  bet- 
ting that  I  did  more  solid  thinking  on  frenzied 
finance  in  the  five  minutes  I  stood  there  watching 
that  train  slid  off  beyond  the  sky-line  than  I'd 
done  in  all  my  life  before.  I'd  heard,  of  course, 
about  fellows  getting  right  down  to  cases,  but  I'd 
never  personally  experienced  the  sensation.  I'd 
always  had  money — or,  if  I  hadn't,  I  knew  where  to 
go.  And  dad  had  caught  me  when  I'd  all  but  over- 
drawn my  account  at  the  bank.  I  was  always  doing 
that,  for  dad  paid  the  bills.  That  last  night  with 
Barney  MacTague  hadn't  been  my  night  to  win,  and 
I'd  dropped  quite  a  lot  there.  And — oh,  what's  the 


The     Range     Dwellers 

use?  I  was  broke,  all  right  enough,  and  I  was 
hungry  enough  to  eat  the  proverbial  crust. 

It  seemed  to  me  it  might  be  a  good  idea  to  hunt 
up  the  gentleman  named  Perry  Potter,  whom  dad 
called  his  foreman.  I  turned  around  and  caught  a 
tall,  brown-faced  native  studying  my  back  with 
grave  interest.  He  didn't  blush  when  I  looked  him 
in  the  eye,  but  smiled  a  tired  smile  and  said  he  reck- 
oned I  was  the  chap  he'd  been  sent  to  meet.  There 
was  no  welcome  in  his  voice,  I  noticed.  I  looked 
him  over  critically. 

"Are  you  the  gentleman  with  the  alliterative  cog- 
nomen?" I  asked  him  airily,  hoping  he  would  be 
puzzled. 

He  was  not,  evidently.  "Perry  "Potter?  He's 
at  the  ranch."  He  was  damnably  tolerant,  and  I 
said  nothing.  I  hate  to  make  the  same  sort  of  fool 
of  myself  twice.  So  when  he  proposed  that  we  "hit 
the  trail,"  I  followed  meekly  in  his  wake.  He  did 
not  offer  to  take  my  suit-case,  and  I  was  about  to 
remind  him  of  the  oversight  when  it  occurred  to 
me  that  possibly  he  was  not  a  servant — he  cer- 


The     Range     Dwellers 

tainly  didn't  act  like  one.  I  carried  my  own  suit- 
case— which  was,  I  have  thought  since,  the  only 
wise  move  I  had  made  since  I  left  home. 

A  strong  but  unsightly  spring-wagon,  with  mud 
six  inches  deep  on  the  wheels,  seemed  the  goal,  and 
we  trailed  out  to  it,  picking  up  layers  of  soil  as  we 
went.  The  ground  did  not  look  muddy,  but  it  was ; 
I  have  since  learned  that  that  particular  phase  of 
nature's  hypocrisy  is  called  "doby."  I  don't  ad- 
mire it,  myself.  I  stopped  by  the  wagon  and 
scraped  my  shoes  on  the  cleanest  spoke  I  could  find, 
and  swore.  My  guide  untied  the  horses,  gathered 
up  the  reins,  and  sought  a  spoke  on  his  side  of  the 
wagon ;  he  looked  across  at  me  with  a  gleam  of  hu- 
manity in  his  eyes — the  first  I  had  seen  there. 

"It  sure  beats  hell  the  way  it  hangs  on,"  he  re- 
marked, and  from  that  minute  I  liked  him.  It  was 
the  first  crumb  of  sympathy  that  had  fallen  to  me 
for  days,  and  you  can  bet  I  appreciated  it. 

We  got  in,  and  he  pulled  a  blanket  over  our  knees 
and  picked  up  the  whip.  It  wasn't  a  stylish  turnout 
— I  had  seen  farmers  driving  along  the  railroad- 

32 


The     Range     Dwellers 

track  in  rigs  like  it,  and  I  was  surprised  at  dad  for 
keeping  such  a  layout.  Fact  is,  I  didn't  think  much1 
of  dad,  anyway,  about  that  time. 

"How  far  is  it  to  the  Bay  State  Ranch  ?"  I  asked. 

"One  hundred  and  forty  miles,  air-line,"  said  he 
casually.  "The  train  was  late,  so  I  reckon  we  better 
stop  over  till  morning.  There's  a  town  over  the 
hill,  and  a  hotel  that  beats  nothing  a  long  way." 

A  hundred  and  forty  miles  from  the  station,  "air- 
line," sounded  to  me  like  a  pretty  stiff  proposition 
to  go  up  against;  also,  how  was  a  fellow  going  to 
put  up  at  a  hotel  when  he  hadn't  the  coin  ?  Would 
my  mysterious  guide  be  shocked  to  learn  that  John 
A.  Carleton's  son  and  heir  had  landed  in  a  strange 
land  without  two-bits  to  his  name?  Jerusalem!  I 
couldn't  have  paid  street-car  fare  down-town;  I 
couldn't  even  have  bought  a  paper  on  the  street. 
While  I  was  remembering  all  the  things  a  million- 
aire's son  can't  do  if  he  happens  to  be  without  a 
nickel  in  his  pocket,  we  pulled  up  before  a  place 
that,  for  the  sake  of  propriety,  I  am  willing  to  call 

33 


The     Range     Dwellers 

a  hotel ;  at  the  time,  I  remember,  I  had  another  name 
for  it. 

"In  case  I  might  get  lost  in  this  strange  city,"  I 
said  to  my  companion  as  I  jumped  out,  "I'd  like  to 
know  what  people  call  you  when  they're  in  a  good 
humor." 

He  grinned  down  at  me.  "Frosty  Miller  would 
hit  me,  all  right,"  he  informed  me,  and  drove  off 
somewhere  down  the  street.  So  I  went  in  and  asked 
for  a  room,  and  got  it. 

This  sounds  sordid,  I  know,  but  the  truth  must 
be  told,  though  the  artistic  sense  be  shocked. 
Barred  from  the  track  as  I  was,  sent  out  to  grass 
in  disgrace  while  the  little  old  world  kept  moving 
without  me  to  help  push,  my  mind  passed  up  all 
the  things  I  might  naturally  be  supposed  to  dwell 
upon  and  stuck  to  three  little  no-account  grievances 
that  I  hate  to  tell  about  now.  They  look  small,  for 
a  fact,  now  that  they're  away  out  of  sight,  almost, 
in  the  past ;  but  they  were  quite  big  enough  at  the 
time  to  give  me  a  bad  hour  or  two.  The  biggest 

34 


The     Range     Dwellers 

one  was  the  state  of  my  appetite ;  next,  and  not  more 
than  a  nose  behind,  was  the  state  of  my  pockets; 
and  the  last  was,  had  Rankin  packed  the  gray  tweed 
trousers  that  I  had  a  liking  for,  or  had  he  not?  I 
tried  to  remember  whether  I  had  spoken  to  him 
about  them,  and  I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed 
in  that  little  box  of  a  room,  took  my  head  between 
my  fists,  and  called  Rankin  several  names  he  some- 
times deserved  and  had  frequently  heard  from  my 
lips.  I'd  have  given  a  good  deal  to  have  Rankin 
at  my  elbow  just  then. 

They  were  not  in  the  suit-case — or,  if  they  were, 
I  had  not  run  across  them.  Rankin  had  a  way  of 
stowing  things  away  so  that  even  he  had  to  do  some 
tall  searching,  and  he  had  another  way  of  filling  up 
my  suit-cases  with  truck  I'd  no  immediate  use  for. 
I  yanked  the  case  toward  me,  unlocked  it,  and 
turned  it  out  on  the  bed,  just  to  prove  Rankin's 
general  incapacity  as  valet  to  a  fastidious  fellow 
like  me. 

There  was  the  suit  I  had  worn  on  that  memorable 
excursion  to  the  Cliff  House — I  had  told  Rankin  to 

35 


The     Range     Dwellers 

pitch  it  into  the  street,  for  I  had  discovered  Teddy 

Van  Greve  in  one  almost  exactly  like  it,  and 

Hello!  Rankin  had  certainly  overlooked  a  bet.  I 
never  caught  him  at  it  before,  that's  certain.  He 
had  a  way  of  coming  to  my  left  elbow,  and,  in  a 
particularly  virtuous  tone,  calling  my  attention  to 
the  fact  that  I  had  left  several  loose  bills  in  my 
pockets.  Rankin  was  that  honest  I  often  told  him 
he  would  land  behind  the  bars  as  an  embezzler  some 
day.  But  Rankin  had  done  it  this  time,  for  fair; 
tucked  away  in  a  pocket  of  the  waistcoat  was  money 
— real,  legal,  lawful  tender — m-o-n-e-y!  I  don't 
suppose  the  time  will  ever  come  when  it  will  look 
as  good  to  me  as  it  did  right  then.  I  held  those 
bank-notes — there  were  two  of  them,  double  XX's 
— to  my  face  and  sniffed  them  like  I'd  never  seen 
the  like  before  and  never  expected  to  again.  And 
the  funny  part  was  that  I  forgot  all  about  wanting 
the  gray  trousers,  and  all  about  the  faults  of  Ran- 
kin. My  feet  were  on  bottom  again,  and  my  head 
on  top.  I  marched  down-stairs,  whistling,  with  my 
hands  in  my  pockets  and  my  chin  in  the  air,  and 

36 


The     Range     Dwellers 

told  the  landlord  to  serve  dinner  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual,  and  to  make  it  a  good  one. 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  curious  mixture  of  won- 
der and  amusement.  "Dinner/'  he  drawled  calmly, 
"has  been  over  for  three  hours ;  but  I  guess  we  can 
give  yuh  some  supper  any  time  after  five." 

I  suppose  he  looked  upon  me  as  the  rankest  kind 
of  a  tenderfoot.  I  calculated  the  time  of  my  tor- 
ture till  I  might,  without  embarrassing  explana- 
tions, partake  of  a  much-needed  repast,  and  went 
to  the  door;  waiting  was  never  my  long  suit,  and 
I  had  thoughts  of  getting  outside  and  taking  a  look 
around.  At  the  second  step  I  changed  my  mind 
— there  was  that  deceptive  mud  to  reckon  with. 

So  from  the  doorway  I  surveyed  all  of  Montana 
that  lay  between  me  and  the  sky-line,  and  decided 
that  my  bets  would  remain  on  California.  The  sky 
was  a  dull  slate,  tumbled  into  what  looked  like  rain- 
clouds  and  depressing  to  the  eye.  The  land  was 
a  dull  yellowish-brown,  with  a  purple  line  of  hills 
off  to  the  south,  and  with  untidy  snow-drifts  crouch- 
ing in  the  hollows.  That  was  all,  so  far  as  I  could 

37 


The     Range     Dwellers 

see,  and  if  dulness  and  an  unpeopled  wilderness 
make  for  the  reformation  of  man,  it  struck  me  that 
I  was  in  a  fair  way  to  become  a  saint  if  I  stayed 
here  long.  I  had  heard  the  cattle-range  called 
picturesque;  I  couldn't  see  the  joke. 

Frosty  Miller  sat  opposite  me  at  table  when,  in 
the  course  of  human  events,  I  ate  again,  and  the 
way  I  made  the  biscuit  and  ham  and  boiled  potatoes 
vanish  filled  him  with  astonishment,  if  one  may 
judge  a  man's  feelings  by  the  size  of  his  eyes.  I 
told  him  that  the  ozone  of  the  plains  had  given  me 
an  appetite,  and  he  did  not  contradict  me ;  he  looked 
at  my  plate,  and  then  smiled  at  his  own,  and  said 
nothing — which  was  polite  of  him. 

"Did  you  ever  skip  two  meals  and  try  to  make  it 
up  on  the  third?"  I  asked  him  when  we  went  out, 
and  he  said  "Sure,"  and  rolled  a  cigarette.  In 
those  first  hours  of  our  acquaintance  Frosty  was  not 
what  I'd  call  loquacious. 

That  night  I  took  out  the  letter  addressed  to  one 
Perry  Potter,  which  dad  had  given  me  and  which 
I  had  not  had  time  to  seal  in  his  presence,  and  read 

38 


The     Range     Dwellers 

it  cold-bloodedly.  I  don't  do  such  things  as  a  rule, 
but  I  was  getting  a  suspicion  that  I  was  being 
queered;  that  I'd  got  to  start  my  exile  under  a 
handicap  of  the  contempt  of  the  natives.  If  dad  had 
stacked  the  deck  on  me,  I  wanted  to  know  it.  But 
I  misjudged  him — or,  perhaps,  he  knew  I'd  read 
it.  All  he  had  written  wouldn't  hurt  the  reputation 
of  any  one.  It  was: 

The  bearer,  Ellis  H.  Carleton,  is  my  son.  He  will  probably 
be  with  you  for  some  time,  and  will  not  try  to  assume  any 
authority  or  usurp  your  position  as  foreman  and  overseer. 
You  will  treat  him  as  you  do  the  other  boys,  and  if  he  wants 
to  work,  pay  him  the  same  wages — if  he  earns  them. 

It  wasn't  exactly  throwing  flowers  in  the  path 
my  young  feet  should  tread,  but  it  might  have  been 
worse.  At  least,  he  did  not  give  Perry  Potter  his 
unbiased  opinion  of  me,  and  it  left  me  with  a  free 
hand  to  warp  their  judgment  somewhat  in  my  favor. 
But — "If  he  wants  to  work,  pay  him  the  same  wages 
— if  he  earns  them."  Whew  t 

I  might  have  saved  him  the  trouble  of  writing 
that,  if  I  had  only  known  it.  Dad  could  go  too  far 

39 


The     Range     Dwellers 

in  this  thing,  I  told  myself  chestily.  I  had  come, 
seeing  that  he  insisted  upon  it,  but  I'd  be  damned  if 
I'd  work  for  any  man  with  a  circus-poster  name, 
and  have  him  lord  it  over  me.  I  hadn't  been 
brought  up  to  appreciate  that  kind  of  joke.  I  meant 
to  earn  my  living,  but  I  did  not  mean  to  get  out 
and  slave  for  Perry  Potter.  There  must  be  some- 
thing respectable  for  a  man  to  do  in  this  country 
besides  ranch  work. 

In  the  morning  we  started  off,  with  my  trunks  in 
the  wagon,  toward  the  line  of  purple  hills  in  the 
south.  Frosty  Miller  told  me,  when  I  asked  him, 
that  they  were  forty-eight  miles  away,  that  they 
marked  the  Missouri  River,  and  that  we  would  stop 
there  overnight.  That,  if  I  remember,  was  about 
the  extent  of  our  conversation  that  day.  We 
smoked  cigarettes — Frosty  Miller  made  his,  one  by 
one,  as  he  needed  them — and  thought  our  own 
thoughts.  I  rather  suspect  our  thoughts  were  a 
good  many  miles  apart,  though  our  shoulders 
touched.  When  you  think  of  it,  people  may  rub  el- 
bows and  still  have  an  ocean  or  two  between  them. 

40 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  don't  know  where  Frosty  was,  all  through  that 
long  day's  ride;  for  me,  I  was  back  in  little  old 
Frisco,  with  Barney  MacTague  and  the  rest  of  the 
crowd;  and  part  of  the  time,  I  know,  I  was  telling 
dad  what  a  mess  he'd  made  of  bringing  up  his  only 
son. 

That  night  we  slept  in  a  shack  at  the  river — 
"Pochette  Crossing"  was  the  name  it  answered  to — 
and  shared  the  same  bed.  It  was  not  remarkable 
for  its  comfort — that  bed.  I  think  the  mattress  was 
stuffed  with  potatoes ;  it  felt  that  way. 

Next  morning  we  were  off  again,  over  the  same 
bare,  brown,  unpeopled  wilderness.  Once  we  saw 
a  badger  zigzagging  along  a  side-hill,  and  Frosty 
whipped  out  a  big  revolver — one  of  those  "Colt 
,'45's,"  I  suppose — and  shot  it;  he  said  in  extenua- 
tion that  they  play  the  very  devil  with  the  range, 
digging  holes  for  cow-punchers  to  break  their  necks 
over. 

I  was  surprised  at  Frosty;  there  he  had  been 
armed,  all  the  time,  and  I  never  guessed  it.  Even 
when  we  went  to  bed  the  night  before,  I  had  not 


The     Range     Dwellers 

glimpsed  a  weapon.  Clearly,  he  could  not  be  a  cow- 
boy, I  reflected,  else  he  would  have  worn  a  car- 
tridge-belt sagging  picturesquely  down  over  one  hip, 
and  his  gun  dangling  from  it.  He  put  the  gun 
away,  and  I  don't  know  where;  somewhere  out  of 
sight  it  went(  and  Frosty  turned  off  the  trail  and 
went  driving  wild  across  the  prairie.  I  asked  him 
why,  and  he  said,  "Short  cut." 

Then  a  wind  crept  out  of  the  north,  and  with  it 
the  snow.  We  were  climbing  low  ridges  and  dodg- 
ing into  hollows,  and  when  the  snow  spread  a  white 
veil  over  the  land,  I  looked  at  Frosty  out  of  the  tail 
of  my  eye,  wondering  if  he  did  not  wish  he  had 
kept  to  the  road — trail,  it  is  called  in  the  range- 
land. 

If  he  did,  he  certainly  kept  it  to  himself;  he  went 
on  climbing  hills  and  setting  the  brake  at  the  top, 
to  slide  into  a  hollow,  and  his  face  kept  its  in- 
scrutable calm;  whatever  he  thought  was  beyond 
guessing  at. 

When  he  had  watered  the  horses  at  a  little  creek 
that  was  already  skimmed  with  ice,  and  unwrapped 

42 


The     Range     Dwellers 

a  package  of  sandwiches  on  his  knee  and  offered 
me  one,  I  broke  loose.  Silence  may  be  golden,  but 
even  old  King  Midas  got  too  big  a  dose  of  gold, 
once  upon  a  time,  if  one  may  believe  tradition. 

"I  hate  to  butt  into  a  man's  meditations,"  I  said, 
looking  him  straight  in  the  eye,  "but  there's  a  limit 
to  everything,  and  you've  played  right  up  to  it. 
You've  had  time,  my  friend,  to  remember  all  your 
sins  and  plan  enough  more  to  keep  you  hustling  the 
allotted  span;  you've  been  given  an  opportunity  to 
reconstruct  the  universe  and  breed  a  new  philosophy 
of  life.  For  Heaven's  sake,  say  something!" 

Frosty  eyed  me  for  a  minute,  and  the  muscles  at 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitched.  "Sure,"  he  re- 
sponded cheerfully.  "I'm  something  like  you;  I 
hate  to  break  into  a  man's  meditations.  It  looks 
like  snow." 

"Do  you  think  it's  going  to  storm  ?"  I  retorted  in 
the  same  tone;  it  had  been  snowing  great  guns  for 
the  last  three  hours.  We  both  laughed,  and  Frosty 
unbent  and  told  me  a  lot  about  Bay  State  Ranch  and 
the  country  around  it. 

43 


The     Range     Dwellers 

Part  of  the  information  was  an  eye-opener;  I 
wished  I  had  known  it  when  dad  was  handing  out 
that  roast  to  me — I  rather  think  I  could  have  made 
him  cry  enough.  I  tagged  the  information  and  laid 
it  away  for  future  reference. 

As  I  got  the  country  mapped  out  in  my  mind,  we 
were  in  a  huge  capital  H.  The  eastern  line,  toward 
which  we  were  angling,  was  a  river  they  call  the 
Midas — though  I'll  never  tell  you  why,  unless  it's  a 
term  ironical.  The  western  line  is  another  river,  the 
Joliette,  and  the  cross-bar  is  a  range  of  hills — they 
might  almost  be  called  mountains — which  I  had 
been  facing  all  that  morning  till  the  snow  came  be- 
tween and  shut  them  off;  White  Divide,  it  is  called, 
and  we  were  creeping  around  the  end,  between  them 
and  the  Midas.  It  seemed  queer  that  there  was  no 
way  of  crossing,  for  the  Bay  State  lies  almost  in  a 
direct  line  south  from  Osage,  Frosty  told  me,  and 
the  country  we  were  traversing  was  rough  as  White 
Divide  could  be,  and  I  said  so  to  Frosty.  Right 
here  is  where  I  got  my  first  jolt. 

"There's  a  fine  pass  cut  through  White  Divide 
44 


The     Range     Dwellers 

by  old  Mama  Nature,"  Frosty  said,  in  the  sort  of 
tone  a  man  takes  when  he  could  say  a  lot  more,  but 
refrains. 

"Then  why  in  Heaven's  name  don't  you  travel 
it?" 

"Because  it  isn't  healthy  for  Ragged  H  folks  to 
travel  that  way,"  he  said,  in  the  same  eloquent  tone. 

"Who  are  the  Ragged  H  folks,  and  what's  the 
matter  with  them?"  I  wanted  to  know — for  I 
smelled  a  mystery. 

He  looked  at  me  sidelong.  "If  you  didn't  look 
just  like  the  old  man,"  he  said,  "I'd  think  yuh  were 
a  fake;  the  Ragged  H  is  the  brand  your  ranch  is 
known  by — the  Bay  State  outfit.  And  it  isn't 
healthy  to  travel  King's  Highway,  because  there's  a 
large-sized  feud  between  your  father  and  old  King. 
How  does  it  happen  yuh  aren't  wise  to  the  family 
history  ?" 

"Dad  never  unbosomed  himself  to  me,  that's 
why,"  I  told  him.  "He  has  labored  for  twenty-five 
years  under  the  impression  that  I  was  a  kid  just  able 
to  toddle  alone.  He  didn't  think  he  needed  to  tell 

45 


The     Range     Dwellers 

me  things ;  I  know  we've  got  a  place  called  the  Bay 
State  Ranch  somewhere  in  this  part  of  the  world, 
and  I  have  reason  to  think  I'm  headed  for  it.  That's 
about  the  extent  of  my  knowledge  of  our  interest 
here.  I  never  heard  of  the  White  Divide  before,  or 
of  this  particular  King.  I'm  thirsting  for  informa- 
tion." 

"Well,  it  strikes  me  you've  got  it  coming,"  said 
Frosty.  "I  always  had  your  father  sized  up  as  being 
closed-mouthed,  but  I  didn't  think  he  made  such  a 
thorough  job  of  it  as  all  that.  Old  King  has  sure 
got  it  in  for  the  Ragged  H— or  Bay  State,  if  yuh'd 
rather  call  us  that;  and  the  Ragged  H  boys  don't 
sit  up  nights  thinking  kind  and  loving  thoughts 
about  him,  either.  Thirty  years  ago  your  father 
and  old  King  started  jangling  over  water-rights, 
and  I  guess  they  burned  powder  a-plenty;  King 
goes  lame  to  this  day  from  a  bullet  your  old  man 
planted  in  his  left  leg." 

I  dropped  the  flag  and  started  him  off  again. 
"It's  news  to  me,"  I  put  in,  "and  you  can't  tell  me 
too  much  about  it." 

46 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"Well,"  he  said,  "your  old  man  was  in  the  right 
of  it ;  he  owns  all  the  land  along  Honey  Creek,  right 
up  to  White  Divide,  where  it  heads;  uh  course,  he 
overlooked  a  bet  there;  he  should  have  got  a  cinch 
on  that  pass,  and  on  the  head  uh  the  creek.  But 
he  let  her  slide,  and  first  he  knew  old  King  had 
come  in  and  staked  a  claim  and  built  him  a  shack 
right  in  our  end  of  the  pass,  and  camped  down  to 
stay.  Your  dad  wasn't  joyful.  The  Bay  State  had 
used  that  pass  to  trail  herds  through  and  as  the 
easiest  and  shortest  trail  to  the  railroad;  and  then 
old  King  takes  it  up,  strings  a  five-wired  fence 
across  at  both  ends  of  his  place,  and  warns  us  off. 
I've  heard  Potter  tell  what  warm  times  there  were. 
Your  father  stayed  right  here  and  had  it  out  with 
him.  The  Bay  State  was  all  he  had,  then,  and  he 
ran  it  himself.  Perry  Potter  worked  for  him,  and 
knows  all  about  it.  Neither  old  King  nor  your  dad 
was  married,  and  it's  a  wonder  they  didn't  kill  each 
other  off — Potter  says  they  sure  tried.  The  time 
King  got  it  in  the  leg  your  father  and  his  punchers 
were  coming  home  from  a  breed  dance,  and  they 

47 


The     Range     Dwellers 

were  feeling  pretty  nifty,  I  guess;  Potter  told  me 
they  started  out  with  six  bottles,  and  when  they 
got  to  White  Divide  there  wasn't  enough  left  to  talk 
about.  They  cut  King's  fence  at  the  north  end,  and 
went  right  through,  hell-bent-for-election.  King 
and  his  men  boiled  out,  and  they  mixed  good  and 
plenty.  Your  father  went  home  with  a  hole  in  his 
shoulder,  and  old  King  had  one  in  his  leg  to  match, 
and  since  then  it's  been  war.  They  tried  to  fight 
it  out  in  court,  and  King  got  the  best  of  it  there. 
Then  they  got  married  and  kind  o'  cooled  off,  and 
pretty  soon  they,  both  got  so  much  stuff  to  look  after 
that  they  didn't  have  much  time  to  take  pot-shots  at 
each  other,  and  now  we're  enjoying  what  yuh  might 
call  armed  peace.  We  go  round  about  sixty  miles, 
and  King's  Highway  is  bad  medicine. 

"King  owns  the  stage-line  from  Osage  to  Laurel, 
where  the  Bay  State  gets  its  mail,  and  he  owns  Ken- 
more,  a  mining-camp  in  the  west  half  uh  White 
Divide.  We  can  go  around  by  Kenmore,  if  we  want 
to — but  King's  Highway?  Nit!" 

48 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  chuckled  to  myself  to  think  of  all  the  things  I 
could  twit  dad  about  if  ever  he  went  after  me  again.' 
It  struck  me  that  I  hadn't  been  a  circumstance,  so 
far,  to  what  dad  must  have  been  in  his  youth.  At 
my  worst,  I'd  never  shot  a  man. 


49 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Quarrel  Renewed. 

That  night,  by  a  close  scratch,  we  made  a  little 
place  Frosty  said  was  one  of  the  Bay  State  line- 
camps.  I  didn't  know  what  a  line-camp  was,  and 

it  wasn't  much  for  style,  but  it  looked  good  to  me, 

i 

after  riding  nearly  all  day  in  a  snow-storm.  Frosty 
cooked  dinner  and  I  made  the  coffee,  and  we  didn't 
have  such  a  bad  time  of  it,  although  the  storm  held 
us  there  for  two  days. 

We  sat  by  the  little  cook-stove  and  told  yarns, 
and  I  pumped  Frosty  just  about  dry  of  all  he'd  ever 
heard  about  dad. 

I  hadn't  intended  to  write  to  dad,  but,  after  hear- 
ing all  I  did,  I  couldn't  help  handing  out  a  gentle 
hint  that  I  was  on.  When  I'd  been  at  the  Bay 
State  Ranch  for  a  week,  I  wrote  him  a  letter  that,  I 
felt,  squared  my  account  with  him.  It  was  so  short 
that  I  can  repeat  every  word  now.  I  said : 

50 


The     Range     Dwellers 

DEAR  DAD:  I  am  here.  Though  you  sent  me  out  here  to 
reform  me,  I  find  the  opportunities  for  unadulterated  deviltry 
away  ahead  of  Frisco.  I  saw  our  old  neighbor,  King,  whom 
you  may  possibly  remember.  He  still  walks  with  a  limp.  By 
the  way,  dad,  it  seems  to  me  that  when  you  were  about 
twenty-five  you  "indulged  in  some  damned  poor  pastimes,'* 
yourself.  Your  dutiful  son,  ELLIS. 

Dad  never  answered  that  letter. 

Montana,  as  viewed  from  the  Bay  State  Ranch 
in  March,  struck  me  as  being  an  unholy  mixture  of 
brown,  sodden  hills  and  valleys,  chill  winds  that 
never  condescended  to  blow  less  than  a  gale,  and 
dull,  scurrying  clouds,  with  sometimes  a  day  of  sun- 
shine that  was  bright  as  our  own  sun  at  home. 
(You  can't  make  me  believe  that  our  California  sun 
bothers  with  any  other  country.) 

I'd  been  used  to  a  green  world;  I  never  would 
go  to  New  York  in  the  winter,  because  I  hate  the 
cold — and  here  I  was,  with  the  cold  of  New  York 
and  with  none  of  the  ameliorations  in  the  way  of 
clubs  and  theaters  and  the  like.  There  were  the 
hills  along  Midas  River  shutting  off  the  East,  and 
hills  to  the  south  that  Frosty  told  me  went  on  for 


The     Range     Dwellers 

miles  and  miles,  and  on  the  north  stretched  White 
Divide — only  it  was  brown,  and  bleak,  and  several 
other  undesirable  things.  When  I  looked  at  it,  I 
used  to  wonder  at  men  fighting  over  it.  I  did  a 
heap  of  wondering,  those  first  few  days. 

Taken  in  a  lump,  it  wasn't  my  style,  and  I  wasn't 
particular  to  keep  my  opinions  a  secret.  For  the 
ranch  itself,  it  looked  to  me  like  a  village  of  corrals 
and  sheds  and  stables,  evidently  built  with  an  eye  to 
usefulness,  and  with  the  idea  that  harmony  of  out- 
line is  a  sin  and  not  to  be  tolerated.  The  house  was 
put  up  on  the  same  plan,  gave  shelter  to  Perry 
Potter  and  the  cook,  had  a  big,  bare  dining-room 
where  the  men  all  ate  together  without  napkins  or 
other  accessories  of  civilization,  and  a  couple  of 
bedrooms  that  were  colder,  if  I  remember  correctly, 
than  outdoors.  I  know  that  the  water  froze  in  my 
pitcher  the  first  night,  and  that  afterward  I  per- 
formed my  ablutions  in  the  kitchen,  and  dipped  hot 
water  out  of  a  tank  with  a  blue  dipper. 

That  first  week  I  spent  adjusting  myself  to  the 
simple  life,  and  trying  to  form  an  unprejudiced  opin- 

52 


The     Range     Dwellers 

ion  of  my  companions  in  exile.  As  for  the  said 
companions,  they  sort  of  stood  back  and  sized  up 
my  points,  good  and  bad — and  I've  a  notion  they 
laid  heavy  odds  against  me,  and  had  me  down  in 
the  Also  Ran  bunch.  I  overheard  one  of  them  re- 
mark, when  I  was  coming  up  from  the  stables: 
"Here's  the  son  and  heir — come,  let's  kill  him!" 
Another  one  drawled:  "What's  the  use?  The 
bounty's  run  out." 

I  was  convinced  that  they  regarded  me  as  a 
frost. 

The  same  with  Perry  Potter,  a  grizzled  little 
man  with  long,  ragged  beard  and  gray  eyes  that 
looked  through  you  and  away  beyond.  I  had  a 
feeling  that  dad  had  told  him  to  keep  an  eye  on  me 
and  report  any  incipient  growth  of  horse-sense.  I 
may  have  wronged  him  and  dad,  but  that  is  how  I 
felt,  and  I  didn't  like  him  any  better  for  it.  He 
left  me  alone,  and  I  raised  the  bet  and  left  him  alone 
so  hard  that  I  scarcely  exchanged  three  sentences 
with  him  in  a  week.  The  first  night  he  asked  after 
dad's  health,  and  I  told  him  the  doctor  wasn't  ma- 

53 


The     Range     Dwellers 

king  regular  calls  at  the  house.  A  day  or  so  after 
he  said:  "How  do  you  like  the  country?"  I  said: 
"Damn  the  country!"  and  closed  that  conversation. 
I  don't  remember  that  we  had  any  more  for  awhile. 

The  cowboys  were  breaking  horses  to  the  saddle 
most  of  the  time,  for  it  was  too  early  for  round- 
up, I  gathered.  When  I  sat  on  the  corral  fence  and 
watched  the  fun,  I  observed  that  I  usually  had  my 
rail  all  to  myself  and  that  the  rest  of  the  audience 
roosted  somewhere  else.  Frosty  Miller  talked  with 
me  sometimes,  without  appearing  to  suffer  any 
great  pain,  but  Frosty  was  always  the  star  actor 
when  the  curtain  rose  on  a  bronco-breaking  act.  As 
for  the  rest,  they  made  it  plain  that  I  did  not  be- 
long to  their  set,  and  I  wasn't  sending  them  my  At 
Home  cards,  either.  We  were  as  haughty  with  each 
other  as  two  society  matrons  when  each  aspires  to. 
be  called  leader. 

Then  a  blizzard  that  lasted  five  days  came  rip- 
ping down  over  that  desolation,  and  everybody  stuck 
close  to  shelter,  and  amused  themselves  as  they 
could.  The  cowboys  played  cards  most  of  the  time 

54 


The     Range     Dwellers 

— seven-up,  or  pitch,  or  poker;  they  didn't  ask  me 
to  take  a  hand,  though ;  I  fancy  they  were  under  the 
impression  that  I  didn't  know  how  to  play. 

I  never  was  much  for  reading;  it's  too  slow  and 
tame.  I'd  much  rather  get  out  and  live  the  story 
I  like  best.  And  there  was  nothing  to  read,  any- 
way. I  went  rummaging  in  my  trunks,  and  in  the 
bottom  of  one  I  came  across  a  punching-bag  and  a 
set  of  gloves.  Right  there  I  took  off  my  hat  to 
Rankin,  and  begged  his  pardon  for  the  unflattering 
names  he'd  been  in  the  habit  of  hearing  from  me. 
I  carried  the  things  down  and  put  up  the  bag  in  an 
empty  room  at  one  end  of  the  bunk-house,  and  got 
busy. 

Frosty  Miller  came  first  to  see  what  was  up,  and 
I  got  him  to  put  on  the  gloves  for  awhile;  he  knew 
something  of  the  manly  art,  I  discovered,  and  we 
went  at  it  fast  and  furious.  I  think  I  broke  up  a 
game  in  the  next  room.  The  boys  came  to  the 
door,  one  by  one,  and  stood  watching,  until  we  had 
the  full  dozen  for  audience.  Before  any  one  realized 
what  was  happening,  we  were  playing  together  real 

55 


The     Range     Dwellers 

pretty,  with  the  chilly  shoulder  barred  and  the  social 
ice  gone  the  way  of  a  dew-drop  in  the  sun. 

We  boxed  and  wrestled,  with  much  scientific  dis- 
cussion of  "full  Nelsons"  and  the  like,  and  even 
fenced  with  sticks.  I  had  them  going  there,  and 
could  teach  them  things ;  and  they  were  the  willing- 
est  pupils  a  man  ever  had — docile  and  rilled  with  a 
deep  respect  for  their  teacher  who  knew  all  there 
was  to  know — or,  if  he  didn't,  he  never  let  on. 
Before  night  we  had  smashed  three  window-panes, 
trimmed  several  faces  down  considerably,  and  got 
pretty  well  acquainted.  I  found  out  that  they 
weren't  so  far  behind  the  old  gang  at  home  for 
wanting  all  there  is  in  the  way  of  fun,  and  I  be- 
lieve they  discovered  that  I  was  harmless.  Before 
that  storm  let  up  they  were  dealing  cards  to  me,  and 
allowing  me  to  get  rid  of  the  rest  of  the  forty  dol- 
lars Rankin  had  overlooked.  I  got  some  of  it 
back. 

I  went  down  and  bunked  with  them,  because  they 
had  a  stove  and  I  didn't,  and  it  was  more  sociable; 
Perry  Potter  and  the  cook  were  welcome  to  the 

56 


The     Range     Dwellers 

house,  I  told  them,  except  at  meal-times.  And, 
more  than  all  the  rest,  I  could  keep  out  of  range  of 
Perry  Potter's  eyes.  I  never  could  get  used  to  that 
watch-Willie-grow  way  he  had,  or  rid  myself  of  the 
notion  that  he  was  sending  dad  a  daily  report  of 
my  behavior. 

The  next  thing,  when  the  weather  quit  sifting 
snow  and  turned  on  the  balmy  breezes  and  the  sun- 
shine, I  was  down  in  the  corrals  in  my  chaps  and 
spurs,  learning  things  about  horses  that  I  never  sus- 
pected before.  When  I  did  something  unusually 
foolish,  the  boys  were  good  enough  to  remember  my 
boxing  and  fencing  and  such  little  accomplishments, 
and  did  not  withdraw  their  favor;  so  I  went  on,  but- 
ting into  every  new  game  that  came  up,  and  taking 
all  bets  regardless,  and  actually  began  to  wise  up 
a  little  and  to  forget  a  few  of  my  grievances. 

I  was  down  in  the  corral  one  day,  saddling  Shy- 
lock — so  named  because  he  tried  to  exact  a  pound  of 
flesh  every  time  I  turned  my  back  or  in  other  ways 
seemed  off  my  guard — and  when  I  was  looping  up 
the  latigo  I  discovered  that  the  alliterative  Mr. 

57 


The     Range     Dwellers 

Potter  was  roosting  on  the  fence,  watching  me  with 
those  needle-pointed  eyes  of  his.  I  wondered  if  he 
was  about  to  prepare  another  report  for  dad. 

"Do  yuh  want  to  be  put  on  the  pay-roll?"  he 
asked,  without  any  preamble,  when  he  caught  my 
glance.  • 

"Yes,  if  I'm  earning  wages.  'The  laborer  is 
worthy  of  his  hire,'  I  believe,"  I  retorted  loftily. 
The  fact  was,  I  was  strapped  again — and,  though 
one  did  not  need  money  on  the  Bay  State  Ranch, 
it's  a  good  thing  to  have  around. 

He  grinned  into  his  collar.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"you've  been  pretty  busy  the  last  three  weeks,  but  I 
ain't  had  any  orders  to  hire  a  boxing-master  for 
the  boys.  I  don't  know  as  that'd  rightly  come  under 
the  head  of  legitimate  expenses;  boxing-masters 
come  high,  I've  heard.  Are  yuh  going  on  round- 
up?" 

"Sure!"  I  answered,  in  an  exact  copy — as  near  as 
I  could  make  it — of  Frosty  Miller's  intonation.  I 
was  making  Frosty  my  model  those  days. 

He  said :  "All  right — your  pay  starts  on  the  fif- 
58 


The     Range     Dwellers 

teenth  of  next  month" — which  was  April.  Then 
he  got  down  from  the  fence  and  went  off,  and  I 
mounted  Shylock  and  rode  away  to  Laurel,  after 
the  mail.  Not  that  I  expected  any,  for  no  one  but 
dad  knew  where  I  was,  and  I  hadn't  heard  a  word 
from  him,  though  I  knew  he  wrote  to  Perry  Potter 
— or  his  secretary  did — every  week  or  so.  Really, 
I  don't  think  a  father  ought  to  be  so  chesty  with! 
the  only  son  he's  got,  even  if  the  son  is  a  no-ac- 
count young  cub. 

I  was  standing  in  the  post-office,  which  was  a 
store  and  saloon  as  well,  when  an  old  fellow  with* 
stubby  whiskers  and  a  jaw  that  looked  as  though 
it  had  been  trimmed  square  with  a  rule,  and  a  limp 
that  made  me  know  at  once  who  he  was,  came  in. 
He  was  standing  at  the  little  square  window,  talk- 
ing to  the  postmaster  and  waving  his  pipe  to  em- 
phasize what  he  said,  when  a  horse  went  past  the 
door  on  the  dead  run,  with  bridle-reins  flying.  A 
fellow  rushed  out  past  us — it  was  his  horse — and 
hit  old  King's  elbow  a  clip  as  he  went  by.  The 
pipe  went  about  ten  feet  and  landed  in  a  pickle-keg. 

59 


T  h  e     Range     Dwellers 

I  went  after  it  and  fished  it  out  for  the  old  fellow — 
not  so  much  because  I'm  filled  with  a  natural  cour- 
tesy, as  because  I  was  curious  to  know  the  man  that 
had  got  the  best  of  dad. 

He  thanked  me,  and  asked  me  across  to  the  saloon 
side  of  the  room  to  drink  with  him.  "I  don't  know 
as  I've  met  you  before,  young  man,"  he  said,  eying 
me  puzzled.  "Your  face  is  familiar,  though;  been 
in  this  country  long?" 

"No,"  I  said;  "a  little  over  a  month  is  all." 

"Well,  if  you  ever  happen  around  my  way — 
King's  Highway,  they  call  my  place — stop  and  see 
me.  Going  to  stay  long  out  here  ?" 

"I  think  so,"  I  replied,  motioning  the  waiter — 
"bar-slave,"  they  call  them  in  Montana — to  refill 
our  glasses.  "And  I'll  be  glad  to  call  some  day, 
when  I  happen  in  your  neighborhood.  And  if  you 
ever  ride  over  toward  the  Bay  State,  be  sure  you 
stop." 

Well,  say!  old  King  turned  the  color  of  a  ripe 
prune;  every  hair  in  that  stubble  of  beard  stood 
straight  out  from  his  chin,  and  he  looked  as  if  mur- 

60 


The     Range     Dwellers 

der  would  be  a  pleasant  thing.  He  took  the  glass 
and  deliberately  emptied  the  whisky  on  the  floor. 
"John  Carleton's  son,  eh?  I  might  'a'  known  it 
— yuh  look  enough  like  him.  Me  drink  with  a  son 
of  John  Carleton?  That  breed  uh  wolves  had  bet- 
ter not  come  howling  around  my  door.  I  asked  yuh 
to  come  t'  King's  Highway,  young  man,  and  I  don't 
take  it  back.  You  can  come,  but  you'll  get  the 
same  sort  uh  welcome  I'd  give  that " 

Right  there  I  got  my  hand  on  his  throttle.  He 
was  an  old  man,  comparatively,  and  I  didn't  want  to 
hurt  him;  but  no  man  under  heaven  can  call  my 
dad  the  names  he  did,  and  I  told  him  so.  "I  don't 
want  to  dig  up  that  old  quarrel,  King,"  I  said, 
shaking  him  a  bit  with  one  hand,  just  to  emphasize 
my  words,  "but  you've  got  to  speak  civilly  of  dad, 
or,  by  the  Lord!  I'll  turn  you  across  my  knee  and 
administer  a  stinging  rebuke." 

He  tried  to  squirm  loose,  and  to  reach  behind  him 
with  that  suggestive  movement  that  breeds  trouble 
among  men  of  the  plains ;  but  I  held  his  arms  so  he 
couldn't  move,  the  while  I  told  him  a  lot  of  things 

61 


The     Range     Dwellers 

about  true  politeness — things  that  I  wasn't  living 
up  to  worth  mentioning.  He  yelled  to  the  post- 
master to  grab  me,  and  the  fellow  tried  it.  I  backed 
into  a  corner  and  held  old  King  in  front  of  me  as 
a  bulwark,  warranted  bullet  proof,  and  wondered 
what  kind  of  a  hornet's-nest  I'd  got  into.  The 
waiter  and  the  postmaster  were  both  looking  for  an 
opening,  and  I  remembered  that  I  was  on  old 
King's  territory,  and  that  they  were  after  holding 
their  jobs. 

I  don't  know  how  it  would  have  ended — I  sup- 
pose they'd  have  got  me,  eventually — but  Perry  Pot- 
ter walked  in,  and  it  didn't  seem  to  take  him  all  day 
to  savvy  the  situation.  He  whipped  out  a  gun  and 
leveled  it  at  the  enemy,  and  told  me  to  scoot  and 
get  on  my  horse. 

"Scoot  nothing!"  I  yelled  back.  "What  about 
you  in  the  meantime?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to 
leave  them  to  clean  you  up?" 

He  smiled  sourly  at  me.  "I've  held  my  own 
with  this  bunch  uh  trouble-hunters  for  thirty  years," 
he  said  dryly.  "I  guess  yuh  ain't  got  any  reason  t' 

62 


The     Range     Dwellers 

be  alarmed.  Come  out  uh  that  corner  and  let  'em 
alone." 

I  don't,  to  this  day,  know  why  I  did  it,  but  I  quit 
hugging  old  King,  and  the  other  two  fell  back  and 
gave  me  a  clear  path  to  the  door.  "King  was  black- 
guarding dad,  and  I  couldn't  stand  for  it,"  I  ex- 
plained to  Perry  Potter  as  I  went  by.  "If  you're 
not  going,  I  won't." 

"I've  got  a  letter  to  mail,"  he  said,  calm  as  if 
he  were  in  his  own  corral.  "You  went  off  before 
I  got  a  chance  to  give  it  to  yuh.  I'll  be  out  in  a 
minute." 

He  went  and  slipped  the  letter  into  the  mail-box, 
turned  his  back  on  the  three,  and  walked  out  as  if 
nothing  had  happened ;  perhaps  he  knew  that  I  was 
watching  them,  in  a  mood  to  do  things  if  they  of- 
fered to  touch  him.  But  they  didn't,  and  we 
mounted  our  horses  and  rode  away,  and  Perry  Pot- 
ter never  mentioned  the  affair  to  me,  then  or  after. 
I  don't  think  we  spoke  on  the  way  to  the  ranch ;  I 
was  busy  wishing  I'd  been  around  in  that  part  of 
the  world  thirty  years  before,  and  thinking  what  a 

63 


The     Range     Dwellers 

lot  of  fun  I  had  missed  by  not  being  as  old  as  dad. 
A  quarrel  thirty  years  old  is  either  mighty  stale 
and  unprofitable,  or  else,  like  wine,  it  improves  with 
age.  I  meant  to  ride  over  to  King's  Highway  some 
day,  and  see  how  he  would  have  welcomed  dad 
thirty  years  before. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Through  King's  Highway. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  I  was  in  a  position  to 
gratify  my  curiosity,  though;  between  the  son  and 
heir,  with  nothing  to  do  but  amuse  himself,  and  a 
cowboy  working  for  his  daily  wage,  there  is  a  great 
gulf  fixed.  After  being  put  on  the  pay-roll,  I 
couldn't  do  just  as  my  fancy  prompted.  I  had  to 
get  up  at  an  ungodly  hour,  and  eat  breakfast  in 
about  two  minutes,  and  saddle  a  horse  and  "ride  cir- 
cle" with  the  rest  of  them — which  same  is  exceed- 
ing wearisome  to  man  and  beast.  For  the  first  time 
since  I  left  school,  I  was  under  orders ;  and  the  fore- 
man certainly  tried  to  obey  dad's  mandate  and  treat 
me  just  as  he  would  have  treated  any  other  stranger. 
I  could  give  it  up,  of  course — but  I  hope  never  to 
see  the  day  when  I  can  be  justly  called  a  quitter. 

First,  we  were  rounding  up  horses — saddlers  that 
were  to  be  ridden  in  the  round-up  proper.  We  were 

65 


The     Range     Dwellers 

not  more  than  two  or  three  weeks  at  that,  though  we 
covered  a  good  deal  of  country.  Before  it  was  over 
,1  knew  a  lot  more  than  when  we  started  out,  and 
had  got  hard  as  nails;  riding  on  round-up  beats  a 
gym  for  putting  wire  muscles  under  a  man's  skin, 
in  my  opinion.  We  worked  all  around  White  Di- 
vide— which  was  turning  a  pale,  dainty  green  except 
where  the  sandstone  cliffs  stood  up  in  all  the  shades 
of  yellow  and  red.  Montana,  as  viewed  on  "horse 
round-up,"  looks  better  than  in  the  first  bleak  days 
of  March,  and  I  could  gaze  upon  it  without  pro- 
fanity. I  even  got  to  like  tearing  over  the  new- 
born grass  on  a  good  horse,  with  a  cowboy  or  two 
galloping,  keen-faced  and  calm,  beside  me.  It  was 
almost  better  than  slithering  along  a  hard  road  with 
a  motor-car  stripped  to  the  running-gear. 

When  the  real  thing  happened — the  "calf  round- 
up"— and  thirty  riders  in  white  felt  hats,  chaps, 
spurs  a-jingle,  and  handkerchief  ends  flying  out  in 
the  wind,  lined  up  of  a  morning  for  orders,  the 
blood  of  me  went  a-jump,  and  my  nerves  were  all 
tingly  with  the  pure  joy  of  being  alive  and  atop  a 

66 


The     Range     Dwellers 

horse  as  eager  as  hounds  in  the  leash  and  with  the 
wind  of  the  plains  in  my  face  and  the  grass-land 
lying  all  around,  yelling  come  on,  and  the  meadow- 
larks  singing  fit  to  split  their  throats.  There's 
nothing  like  it — and  I've  tried  nearly  everything  in 
the  way  of  blood-tinglers.  Skimming  through  the 
waves,  alean  to  the  wind  in  a  racing-yacht,  comes 
nearest,  and  even  that  takes  second  money  when 
circle-riding  on  round-up  is  entered  in  the  race. 
But  this  is  getting  away  from  my  story. 

We  were  working  the  country  just  north  of  White 
Divide,  when  the  foreman  started  me  home  with 
a  message  for  Perry  Potter — and  I  was  to  get  back 
as  soon  as  possible  with  the  answer.  Now,  here's 
where  I  got  gay. 

As  I  said,  we  were  north  of  White  Divide,  and 
the  home  ranch  was  south,  and  to  go  around  either 
end  of  that  string  of  hills  meant  an  extra  sixty  miles 
to  cover  each  way — a  hundred  and  twenty  for  the 
round  trip.  Directly  in  the  way  of  the  proverbial 
crow's  flight  lay  King's  Highway,  which — if  I  got 
through — would  put  me  at  the  ranch  the  first  day, 

67 


The     Range     Dwellers 

and  back  at  camp  the  second;  and  I  rather  guessed 
that  would  surprise  our  worthy  foreman  not  a  lit-  . 
tie.  I  didn't  see  why  it  couldn't  be  done ;  surely  old 
King  wouldn't  murder  a  man  just  for  riding 
through  that  pass — that  would  be  bloody-minded 
indeed ! 

And  if  I  failed — why,  I  could  go  around,  and 
no  one  would  be  wise  to  the  fact  that  I  had  tried 
it.  I  headed  straight  for  the  pass,  which  yawned 
invitingly,  with  two  bare  peaks  for  the  jaws,  not 
over  six  miles  away.  It  was  against  orders,  for 
Perry  Potter  had  given  the  boys  to  understand  that 
they  were  not  to  go  that  way,  and  that  they  were 
to  leave  King  and  his  stronghold  strictly  alone;  but 
I  didn't  worry  about  that.  When  I  was  fairly  in 
the  mouth  of  the  pass,  I  got  down  and  looked  to  the 
cinch,  and  then  rode  boldly  forward,  like  a  soldier 
riding  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth  with  a  smile  on 
his  face.  Oh,  I  wasted  plenty  of  admiration  on 
one  Ellis  Carleton  about  that  time,  and  rehearsed 
the  bold,  biting  speech  I  meant  to  deliver  at  old 
King's  very  door. 

68 


The     Range     Dwellers 

So  far  it  was  easy  sailing.  There  was  a  hard- 
beaten  road,  and  the  hills  seemed  standing  back  and 
folding  aside  their  skirts  for  a  free  passing.  The 
sun  lay  warm  on  their  green  slopes,  and  one  could 
fairly  smell  the  grass  growing.  In  the  hollows  were 
worlds  of  blue  flowers,  with  patches  here  and  there 
a  royal  purple.  I  stopped  and  gathered  a  handful 
and  stuck  them  in  my  buttonhole  and  under  my  hat- 
band. I  don't  know  when  I  have  felt  so  thoroughly 
satisfied  with  said  Ellis  Carleton — of  whom  I  am 
overfond  of  speaking — I  even  mimicked  the  mea- 
dow-larks, until  they  watched  me  with  heads  tilted, 
not  knowing  what  to  make  of  such  an  impertinent 
fellow. 

King's  Highway  was  glorious;  I  didn't  wonder 
that  dad  thought  it  worth  fighting  over,  and  as  I 
went  on,  farther  and  farther  down  this  lane  made  by 
nature  for  easy  passing,  I  could  see  what  an  im- 
mense advantage  it  would  be  to  take  herds  through 
that  way.  I  could  see  why  the  Bay  State  men 
cursed  King  when  they  took  the  rough  trail  around 
the  end  of  White  Divide. 

69 


The     Range     Dwellers 

After  an  hour  of  undisputed  riding  on  this  for- 
bidden trail,  the  pass  narrowed  rather  abruptly  till 
it  was  not  more  than  a  furlong  in  width;  the  hills 
stretched  their  heads  still  higher,  as  if  they  wanted 
to  see  the  fun,  and  the  shadow  of  the  eastern  rim 
laid  clear  across  the  narrow  valley  and  touched  the 
foot  of  the  opposite  slope.  I  hope  I  am  not  going 
to  be  called  nervous  if  I  tell  the  truth  about  things ; 
when  I  rode  into  the  shadow  I  stopped  whistling  a 
bad  imitation  of  meadow-lark  notes.  A  bit  farther 
and  I  pulled  up,  looked  all  around,  and  got  off  and 
tightened  the  cinch  a  bit  more.  Shylock — I  always 
rode  him  when  I  could — threw  his  head  around  and 
nearly  took  a  chunk  out  of  my  arm,  and  in  reprov- 
ing him  I  forgot,  for  a  minute,  the  ticklish  game  I 
was  playing.  Then  I  loosened  my  gun — I  had 
learned  to  carry  it  inconspicuously  under  my  coat, 
as  did  the  other  boys — made  sure  it  could  be  pulled 
without  embarrassing  delay,  and  went  on.  Around 
the  next  turn  a  five-wired  fence  stretched  across 
the  trail,  with  a  gate  fastened  by  a  chain  and  pad- 

70 


The     Range     Dwellers 

lock.  I  whistled  under  my  breath,  and  eyed  the 
lock  with  extreme  disfavor. 

But  I  had  learned  a  trick  of  the  cowboys.  I 
pulled  the  wire  off  a  couple  of  posts  at  one  side 
of  the  gate,  laid  them  flat  on  the  ground,  and  led 
Shylock  over  them.  Then  I  found  a  rock,  pounded 
the  staples  back  in  place,  and  went  on;  only  for 
the  tracks,  one  could  not  notice  that  any  had  passed 
that  way.  Still,  it  was  a  bit  ticklish,  riding  down 
King's  Highway  alone  and  with  no  idea  of  what  lay 
farther  on.  But  dad  had  dared  go  that  way,  and 
to  right  at  the  far  end ;  and  what  dad  had  not  been 
afraid  to  tackle,  it  did  not  behoove  his  son  to  back 
down  from.  I  made  Shylock  walk  the  next  half- 
mile,  with  some  notion  of  saving  his  wind  for  an 
emergency  run. 

Of  a  sudden  I  rounded  a  sharp  nose  of  hill  and 
came  plump  on  the  palace  of  the  King.  It  looked  a 
good  deal  like  the  Bay  State  Ranch — big  corrals 
and  sheds  and  stables,  and  little  place  for  man  to 
dwell.  The  house,  though,  was  bigger  than  ours, 
and  looked  more  comfortable  to  live  in.  And  the 


The     Range     Dwellers 

thing  that  struck  me  most  was  the  head  which  King 
displayed  for  strategy.  The  trail  wound  between 
those  same  sheds  and  corrals,  a  gantlet  two  hun- 
dred yards  long  that  one  must  run  or  turn  back. 
On  either  side  the  bluffs  rose  sheer,  with  the  build- 
ings crowding  close  against  their  base.  I  didn't 
wonder  Frosty  called  King's  Highway  "bad  medi- 
cine." It  certainly  did  look  like  it. 

I  went  softly  along  that  trail,  turning  sharp  cor- 
ners around  a  shed  here,  circling  a  corral  there, 
with  my  hand  within  an  inch  of  my  gun,  and  my 
heart  within  an  inch  of  my  teeth,  and  you  may 
laugh  all  you  like. 

No  one  seemed  to  be  about;  the  sheds  were  de- 
serted, and  a  few  horses  dozed  in  a  corral  that  I 
passed;  but  human  being  I  saw  none.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  King  did  not  consider  his  enemy  worth 
watching.  I  passed  the  last  shed  and  found  my- 
self headed  straight  for  the  house;  I  had  still  to  get 
through  its  very  dooryard  before  I  was  in  any  posi- 
tion to  crow,  and  beyond  the  house  was  another 
fence;  I  hoped  the  gate  was  not  locked.  Shylock 

72 


The     Range     Dwellers 

pricked  up  his  ears,  then  laid  them  back  along  his 
neck  as  if  he  did  not  approve  the  layout,  either.  But 
we  ambled  right  along,  like  a  deacon  headed  for 
prayer-meeting,  and  I  tried  to  look  in  four  different 
directions  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

For  that  reason,  I  didn't  see  her  till  she  stood 
right  in  front  of  me;  and  when  I  did,  I  stared  like 
an  idiot.  It  was  a  girl,  and  she  was  coming  down 
a  path  to  the  trail,  with  her  hands  full  of  flowers, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  Duchess  novel.  Another 
minute,  and  I'd  have  run  over  her,  I  guess.  She 
stopped  and  looked  at  me  from  under  lashes  so 
thick  and  heavy  they  seemed  almost  pulling  her  lids 
shut,  and  there  was  something  in  her  eyes  that  made 
me  go  hot  and  cold,  like  I  was  coming  down  with 
grippe;  when  she  spoke  my  symptoms  grew  worse. 

"Did  you  wish  to  see  father?"  she  asked,  as  if  she 
were  telling  me  to  leave  the  place. 

"I  believe,"  I  rallied  enough  to  answer,  "that 
'father'  would  give  a  good  deal  to  see  me."  Then 
that  seemed  to  shut  off  our  conversation  too  abruptly 
to  suit  me;  there  are  occasions  when  prickly  chills 

73 


The     Range     Dwellers 

have  a  horrible  fascination  for  a  fellow;  this  was 
one  of  the  times. 

"He's  not  at  home,  I'm  very  sorry  to  say,"  she 
retorted  in  the  same  liquid-air  voice  as  before,  and 
turned  to  go  back  to  the  house. 

I  thanked  the  Lord  for  that,  in  a  whisper,  and 
kept  pace  with  her.  It  was  plain  she  hated  the  sight 
of  me,  but  I  counted  on  her  being  enough  like  her 
dad  not  to  run  away. 

"May  I  trouble  you  for  a  drink  of  water?"  I 
asked,  in  the  orthodox  tone  of  humility. 

"There  is  no  need  to  trouble  me;  there  is  the 
creek,  beyond  the  house;  you  are  welcome  to  all 
you  want." 

"Thanks."  I  watched  the  pink  curve  of  her 
cheek,  and  knew  she  was  dying  for  a  chance  to  snub 
me  still  more  maliciously.  We  were  at  the  steps  of 
the  veranda  now,  but  still  she  would  not  hurry; 
she  seemed  to  hate  even  the  semblance  of  running 
away. 

"Can  you  direct  me  to  the  Bay  State  Ranch?"  I 
74 


The     Range     Dwellers 

hazarded.  It  was  my  last  card,  and  I  let  it  go 
with  a  sigh. 

She  pointed  a  slim,  scornful  finger  at  the  brand 
on  Shylock's  shoulder. 

"If  you  are  in  doubt  of  the  way,  Mr.  Carleton, 
your  horse  will  take  you  home — if  you  give  him  his 
head." 

That  put  a  crimp  in  me  worse  than  the  look  of 
her  eyes,  even.  I  stared  at  her  a  minute,  and  then 
laughed  right  out.  "The  game's  yours,  Miss  King, 
and  I  take  off  my  hat  to  you  for  hitting  straight 
and  hard,"  I  said.  "Must  the  feud  descend  even 
to  the  second  generation  ?  Is  it  a  fight  to  the  finish, 
and  no  quarter  asked  or  given?" 

I  had  her  going  then.  She  blushed — and  when  I 
saw  the  red  creep  into  her  cheeks  my  heart  was 
hardened  to  repentance.  I'd  have  done  it  again  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  that  way. 

"You  are  taking  a  good  deal  for  granted,  sir," 
she  said,  in  her  loftiest  tone.  "We  Kings  scarcely 
consider  the  Carletons  worthy  our  weapons." 

"You  don't,  eh?  Then,  why  did  you  begin  it?" 
75 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  wanted  to  know.    "If  you  permit  me,  you  started 
the  row  before  I  spoke,  even." 

"I  do  not  permit  you."  Clearly,  my  lady  could 
be  haughty  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  fastidious. 
"Well,"  I  sighed,  "I  will  go  my  way.  I'm  a 
lover  of  peace,  myself;  but  since  you  proclaim  war, 
war  it  must  be.  I'm  not  so  ungallant  as  to  oppose  a 
lady's  wishes.  Is  that  gate  down  there  locked?" 

"Figuratively,  it's  always  locked  against  the  Carle- 
tons,"  she  said. 

"But  I  want  to  go  through  it  literally"  I  retorted. 
And  she  just  looked  at  me  from  under  those  lashes, 
and  never  answered. 

"Well,  the  air  grows  chill  in  King's  Highway," 
I  shivered  mockingly.  "If  ever  I  find  you  on  Bay 
State  soil,  Miss  King,  I  shall  take  much  pleasure  in 
teaching  you  the  proper  way  to  treat  an  enemy." 

"I  shall  be  greatly  diverted,  no  doubt,"  was  the 
scornful  reply  of  her — and  just  then  an  old  lady 
came  to  the  door,  and  I  lifted  my  hand  grandly 
in  a  precise  military  salute  and  rode  away,  wonder- 
ing which  of  us  had  had  the  best  of  it. 

76 


The     Range     Dwellers 

The  gate  wasn't  locked,  and  as  for  taking  a  drink 
at  the  creek,  I  forgot  that  I  was  thirsty.  I  jogged 
along  toward  home,  and  wondered  why  Frosty  had 
not  told  me  that  King  had  a  daughter.  Also,  I 
wondered  at  her  animosity.  It  never  occurred  to 
me  that  her  father,  unlike  my  dad,  had  probably 
harped  on  the  Carletons  until  she  had  come  to 
think  we  were  in  league  with  the  Old  Boy  himself. 
Her  dad's  game  leg  would  no  doubt  argue  strongly 
against  us,  and  keep  the  feud  green  in  her  heart — 
supposing  she  had  one. 

On  the  whole,  I  was  glad  I  had  traveled  King's 
Highway.  I  had  discovered  a  brand-new  enemy — 
and  so  far  in  my  life  enemies  had  been  so  scarce 
as  to  be  a  positive  diversion.  And  it  was  novel  and 
interesting  to  be  so  thoroughly  hated  by  a  girl.  No 
reason  to  dodge  her  net.  I  rather  congratulated 
myself  on  knowing  one  girl  who  positively  refused 
to  smile  on  demand.  She  hadn't,  once.  I  got  to 
wondering,  that  night,  if  she  had  dimples.  I  meant 
to  find  out. 


77 


CHAPTER  V. 

Into  the  Lion's  Mouth. 

Perry  Potter,  when  he  had  read  the  foreman's 
note,  asked  how  long  since  I  left  camp;  when  I 
told  him  that  I  was  there  at  daylight,  he  looked  at 
me  queerly  and  walked  off  without  a  word.  I 
didn't  say  anything,  either. 

I  stayed  at  the  ranch  overnight,  intending  to 
start  back  the  next  morning.  The  round-up  would 
be  west  of  where  I  had  left  them,  according  to  the 
foreman — or  wagon-boss,  as  he  is  called.  Logic- 
ally, then,  I  should  take  the  trail  that  led  through 
Kenmore,  the  mining-camp  owned  by  King,  and 
which  lay  in  the  heart  of  White  Divide  ten  miles 
west  of  King's  Highway.  That,  I  say,  was  the 
logical  route — but  I  wasn't  going  to  take  it.  I 
wasn't  a  bit  stuck  on  that  huddle  of  corrals  and 
sheds,  with  the  trail  winding  blindly  between,  and 
I  wasn't  in  love  with  the  girl  or  with  old  King; 

78 


The     Range     Dwellers 

but,  all  the  same,  I  meant  to  go  back  the  way  I 
came,  just  for  my  own  private  satisfaction. 

While  I  was  saddling  Shylock,  in  the  opal-tinted 
sunrise,  Potter  came  down  and  gave  me  the  letter  to 
the  wagon-boss,  an  answer  to  the  one  I  had  brought. 

"Here's  some  chuck  the  cook  put  up  for  yuh,"  he 
remarked,  handing  me  a  bundle  tied  up  in  a  flour- 
sack.  "You'll  need  it  'fore  yuh  get  through  to 
camp;  you'll  likely  be  longer  going  than  yuh  was 
comin'." 

"Think  so?"  I  smiled  knowingly  to  myself  and 
left  him  staring  disapprovingly  after  me.  I  could 
easily  give  a  straight  guess  at  what  he  was  thinking. 

I  jogged  along  as  leisurely  as  I  could  without 
fretting  Shylock,  and,  once  clear  of  the  home  field, 
headed  straight  for  King's  Highway.  It  wasn't 
the  wisest  course  I  could  take,  perhaps,  but  it  was 
like  to  prove  the  most  exciting,  and  I  never  was 
remarkable  for  my  wisdom.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
it  was  necessary  to  my  self-respect  to  return  the  way 
I  came — and  I  may  as  well  confess  that  I  hoped 
Miss  King  was  an  early  riser.  As  it  was,  I  killed 

79 


The     Range     Dwellers 

what  time  I  could,  and  so  spent  a  couple  of  hours 
where  one  would  have  sufficed. 

Half  a  mile  out  from  the  mouth  of  the  pass,  I  ob- 
served a  human  form  crowning  the  peak  of  a  sharp- 
pointed  little  butte  that  rose  up  out  of  the  prairie; 
since  the  form  seemed  to  be  in  skirts,  I  made  for  the 
spot.  Shylock  puffed  up  the  steep  slope,  and  at 
last  stopped  still  and  looked  back  at  me  in  utter  dis- 
gust ;  so  I  took  the  hint  and  got  off,  and  led  him  up 
the  rest  of  the  way. 

"Good  morning.  We  meet  on  neutral  ground," 
I  greeted  when  I  was  close  behind  her.  "I  propose 
a  truce." 

She  jumped  a  bit,  and  looked  very  much  aston- 
ished to  see  me  there  so  close.  If  it  had  been  some 
other  girl — say  Ethel  Mapleton — I'd  have  suspected 
the  genuineness  of  that  surprise;  as  it  was,  I  could 
only  think  she  had  been  very  much  absorbed  not 
to  hear  me  scrambling  up  there. 

"You're  an  early  bird,"  she  said  dryly,  "to  be  so 
far  from  home."  She  glanced  toward  the  pass,  as 

80 


The     Range     Dwellers 

though  she  would  like  to  cut  and  run,  but  hated  to 
give  me  the  satisfaction. 

"Well,"  I  told  her  with  inane  complacency,  "you 
will  remember  that  'it's  the  early  bird  that  catches 
the  worm/  ' 

"What  a  pretty  speech!"  she  commented,  and  I 
saw  what  I'd  done,  and  felt  myself  turn  a  beautiful 
purple.  Compare  her  to  a  worm ! 

But  she  laughed  when  she  saw  how  uncomfort- 
able I  was,  and  after  that  I  was  almost  glad  I'd 
said  it;  she  did  have  dimples — two  of  them — 
and 

The  laugh,  however,  was  no  sign  of  incipient 
amiability,  as  I  very  soon  discovered.  She  turned 
her  back  on  me  and  went  imperturbably  on  with  her 
sketching ;  she  was  trying  to  put  on  paper  the  lights 
and  shades  of  White  Divide — and  even  a  desire  to 
be  chivalrous  will  not  permit  me  to  lie  and  say  that 
she  was  making  any  great  success  of  it.  I  don't  be- 
lieve the  Lord  ever  intended  her  for  an  artist. 

"Aren't   you   giving   King's    Highway   a  much 
81 


The     Range     Dwellers 

wider  mouth  than  it's  entitled  to?"  I  asked  mildly, 
after  watching  her  for  a  minute. 

"I  should  not  be  surprised,"  she  told  me  haugh- 
tily, "if  you  some  day  wished  it  still  wider." 

"There  wouldn't  be  the  chance  for  fighting,  if  it 
was;  and  I  take  great  pleasure  in  keeping  the  feud 
going." 

"I  thought  you  were  anxious  for  a  truce,"  she 
said  recklessly,  shading  a  slope  so  that  it  looked  like 
the  peak  of  a  roof. 

"I  am,"  I  retorted  shamelessly.  "I'm  anxious  for 
anything  under  the  sun  that  will  keep  you  talking 
to  me.  People  might  call  that  a  flirtatious  remark, 
but  I  plead  not  guilty ;  I  wouldn't  know  how  to  flirt, 
even  if  I  wanted  to  do  so." 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  me  in  a  way 
that  I  could  not  misunderstand;  it  was  plain,  un- 
varnished scorn,  and  a  ladylike  anger,  and  a  few 
other  unpleasant  things. 

It  made  me  think  of  a  certain  star  in  "The  Tam- 
ing of  the  Shrew." 

82 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"Fie,  fie !  unknit  that  threatening,  unkind  brow, 
And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 
To  wound  thy  neighbor  and  thine  enemy," 

I  declaimed,  with  rather  a  free  adaptation  to  my 
own  need. 

Her  brow  positively  refused  to  unknit.  "Have 
you  nothing  to  do  but  spout  bad  quotations  from 
Shakespeare  on  a  hilltop?"  she  wanted  to  know, 
in  a  particularly  disagreeable  tone. 

"Plenty ;  I  have  yet  to  win  that  narrow  pass,"  I 
said. 

"Hardly  to-day,"  she  told  me,  with  more  than  a 
shade  of  triumph.  "Father  is  at  home,  and  he  heard 
of  your  trip  yesterday." 

If  she  expected  to  scare  me  by  that!  "Must  our 
feud  include  your  father?  When  I  met  him  a 
month  ago,  he  gave  me  a  cordial  invitation  to  stop, 
if  I  ever  happened  this  way." 

She  lifted  those  heavy  lashes,  and  her  eyes  plainly 
spoke  unbelief. 

"It's  a  fact,"  I  assured  her  calmly.  "I  met  him 
one  day  in  Laurel,  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  per- 

83 


The     Range     Dwellers 

form  a  service  which  earned  his  gratitude.  As  I 
say,  he  invited  me  to  come  and  see  him ;  I  told  him 
I  should  be  glad  to  have  him  visit  me  at  the  Bay 
State  Ranch,  and  we  embraced  each  other  with 
much  fervor." 

"Indeed !"  I  could  see  that  she  persisted  in  doubt- 
ing my  veracity. 

"Ask  your  father  if  we  didn't/'  I  said,  much  in- 
jured. I  knew  she  wouldn't,  though. 

A  scrambling  behind  us  made  me  turn,  and  there 
was  Perry  Potter  climbing  up  to  us,  his  eyes  sharper 
than  ever,  and  his  face  so  absolutely  devoid  of  ex- 
pression that  it  told  me  a  good  deal.  I'll  lay  all  I 
own  he  was  a  good  bit  astonished  at  what  he  saw ! 
As  for  me,  I  could  have  kicked  him  back  to  the 
bottom  of  the  hill — and  I  probably  looked  it. 

"There  was  something  I  forgot  to  put  in  that 
note,"  he  said  evenly,  just  touching  the  brim  of  his 
hat  in  acknowledgment  of  the  girl's  presence.  "I 
wrote  another  one.  I'd  like  Ballard  to  get  it  as  soon 
as  you  can  make  camp— conveniently."  His  eyes 
looked  through  me  almost  as  if  I  weren't  there. 

84 


The     Range     Dwellers 

My  desire  to  kick  him  grew  almost  into  mania.  I 
took  the  note,  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  addressed 
to  me,  and  said:  "All  right,"  in  a  tone  quite  dif- 
ferent from  the  one  I  had  been  using  to  tease  Miss 
King. 

He  gave  me  another  sharp  look,  and  went  back 
the  way  he  had  come,  leaving  me  standing  there 
glaring  after  him.  Miss  King,  I  noticed,  was 
sketching  for  dear  life,  and  her  cheeks  were  crim- 
son. 

When  Potter  had  got  to  the  bottom  and  was 
riding  away,  I  unfolded  the  note  and  read : 

Don't  be  a  fool.  For  God's  sake,  have  some  sense  and 
keep  away  from  King's  Highway. 

I  laughed,  and  Miss  King  looked  up  inquiringly. 
Following  an  impulse  I've  never  yet  been  able  to 
classify,  I  showed  her  the  note. 

She  read  it  calmly — I  might  say  indifferently. 
"He  is  quite  right,"  she  said  coldly.  "I,  too — if  I 
cared  enough — would  advise  you  to  keep  away 
from  King's  Highway." 

85 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"But  you  don't  care  enough  to  advise  me,  and  so 
I  shall  go,"  I  said — and  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  her  teeth  come  down  sharply  on  her  lower 
lip.  I  waited  a  minute,  watching  her. 

"You're  very  foolish,"  she  said  icily,  and  went  at 
her  sketching  again. 

I  waited  another  minute;  during  that  time  she 
succeeded  in  making  the  pass  look  weird  indeed,  and 
a  fearsome  place  to  enter.  I  got  reckless. 

"You've  spoiled  that  sketch,"  I  said,  stooping  and 
taking  it  gently  from  her.  "Give  it  to  me,  and  it 
shall  be  a  flag  of  truce  with  which  I  shall  win  my 
way  through  unscathed." 

She  started  to  her  feet  then,  and  her  anger  was 
worth  facing  for  the  glow  it  brought  to  eyes  and 
cheeks,  and  the  tremble  that  came  to  her  lips. 

"Mr.  Carleton,  you  are  perfectly  detestable !"  she 
cried. 

"Miss  King,  you  are  perfectly  adorable!"  I  re- 
turned, folding  the  sketch  very  carefully,  so  that  it 
would  slip  easily  into  my  pocket.  "With  so  authen- 
tic a  map  of  the  enemy's  stronghold,  what  need  I 

86 


The     Range     Dwellers 

fear?  I  go — but,  on  my  honor,  I  shall  shortly  re- 
turn." 

She  stood  with  her  fingers  clasped  tightly  in  front 
of  her,  and  watched  me  lead  Shylock  down  that 
butte — on  the  side  toward  the  pass,  if  you  are  still 
in  doubt  of  my  intentions.  When  I  say  she  watched 
me,  I  am  making  a  guess;  but  I  felt  that  she  was, 
and  it  would  be  hard  to  disabuse  my  mind  of  that 
belief.  And  when  I  started,  her  fingers  had  been 
clinging  tightly  together.  At  the  bottom  I  turned 
and  waved  my  hat — and  I  know  she  saw  that,  for 
she  immediately  whirled  and  took  to  studying  the 
southern  sky-line.  So  I  left  her  and  galloped 
straight  into  the  lion's  den — to  use  an  old  simile. 

I  passed  through  the  gate  and  up  to  the  house, 
Shylock  pacing  easily  along  as  though  we  both  felt 
assured  of  a  welcome.  Old  King  met  me  at  his 
door  as  I  was  going  by;  I  pulled  up  and  gave  him 
my  very  cheeriest  good  morning.  He  looked  at 
me  from  under  shaggy,  gray  eyebrows. 

"You've  got  your  gall,  young  man,  to  come  this 
way  twice  in  twenty-four  hours,"  he  said  grimly. 

87 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"You  can  turn  around  and  go  back  the  way  you, 
came  in." 

"You  asked  me  to  call,"  I  reminded  him  mildly. 
"You  were  not  at  home  yesterday,  so  I  came  again." 

He  glanced  uneasily  over  his  shoulder,  and  drew 
the  door  shut  between  himself  and  whoever  was 
within.  "You  damn'  cur,"  he  growled,  "yuh  know 
yuh  ain't  no  friend  uh  the  Kings." 

"I  know  you're  all  mighty  unneighborly,"  I  said, 
making  me  a  cigarette  in  the  way  that  cowboys  do. 
"I  asked  a  young  lady — your  daughter,  I  suppose 
— for  a  drink  of  water.  She  told  me  to  go  to  the 
creek." 

He  laughed  at  that ;  evidently  he  approved  of  his 
daughter's  attitude.  "Beryl  knows  how  to  deal  with 
the  likes  uh  you,"  he  muttered  relishfully.  "And 
she  hates  the  Carletons  bad  as  I  do.  Get  off  my 
place,  young  man,  and  do  it  quick !" 

"Sure!"  I  assented  cheerfully,  and  jabbed  the 
spurs  into  Shylock — taking  good  care  that  he  was 
headed  north  instead  of  south.  And  it's  a  fact  that, 

88 


The     Range     Dwellers 

ticklish  as  was  the  situation,  my  first  thought  was: 
"So  her  name's  Beryl,  is  it?  Mighty  pretty  name, 
and  fits  her,  too." 

King  wasn't  thinking  anything  so  sentimental, 
I'll  wager.  He  yelled  to  two  or  three  fellows,  as 
I  shot  by  them  near  the  first  corral :  "Round  up  that 
thus-and-how" — I  hate  to  say  the  words  right  out — 
"and  bring  him  back  here !"  Then  he  sent  a  bullet 
zipping  past  my  ear,  and  from  the  house  came  a 
high,  nasal  squawk  which,  I  gathered,  came  from 
the  old  party  I  had  seen  the  day  before. 

I  went  clippety-clip  around  those  sheds  and  cor- 
rals, till  I  like  to  have  snapped  my  head  off ;  I  knew 
Shylock  could  take  first  money  over  any  ordinary 
cayuse,  and  I  let  him  out;  but,  for  all  that,  I  heard 
them  coming,  and  it  sounded  as  if  they  were  about 
to  ride  all  over  me,  they  were  so  close. 

Past  the  last  shed  I  went  streaking  it,  and  my 
heart  remembered  what  it  was  made  for,  and  went 
to  work.  I  don't  feel  that,  under  the  circumstances, 
it's  any  disgrace  to  own  that  I  was  scared.  I  didn't 
hear  any  more  little  singing  birds  fly  past,  so  I 

89 


The     Range     Dwellers 

straightened  up  enough  to  look  around  and  see  what 
was  doing  in  the  way  of  pursuit. 

One  glance  convinced  me  that  my  pursuers 
weren't  going  to  sleep  in  their  saddles.  One  of 
them,  on  a  little  buckskin  that  was  running  with 
his  ears  laid  so  flat  it  looked  as  if  he  hadn't  any, 
was  widening  the  loop  in  his  rope,  and  yelling  un- 
friendly things  as  he  spurred  after  me;  the  others 
were  a  length  behind,  and  I  mentally  put  them  out 
of  the  race.  The  gentleman  with  the  businesslike 
air  wras  all  I  wanted  to  see,  and  I  laid  low  as  I  could 
and  slapped  Shylock  along  the  neck,  and  told  him  to 
bestir  himself. 

He  did.  We  skimmed  up  that  trail  like  a  winner 
on  the  home-stretch,  and  before  I  had  time  to  think 
of  what  lay  ahead,  I  saw  that  fence  with  the  high, 
board  gate  that  was  padlocked.  Right  there  I 
swore  abominably — but  it  didn't  loosen  the  gate. 
I  looked  back  and  decided  that  this  was  no  occa- 
sion for  pulling  wires  loose  and  leading  my  horse 
over  them.  It  was  no  occasion  for  anything  that 
required  more  than  a  second ;  my  friend  of  the  rope 

90 


The     Range     Dwellers 

was  not  more  than  five  long  jumps  behind,  and  he 
was  swinging  that  loop  suggestively  over  his  head. 

I  reined  Shylock  sharply  out  of  the  trail,  saw  a 
place  where  the  fence  looked  a  bit  lower  than  the 
average,  and  put  him  straight  at  it  with  quirt  and 
spurs.  He  would  have  swung  off,  but  I've  ridden  to 
hounds,  and  I  had  seen  hunters  go  over  worse 
places;  I  held  him  to  it  without  mercy.  He  laid 
back  his  ears,  then,  and  went  over — and  his  hind 
feet  caught  the  top  wire  and  snapped  it  like  thread. 
I  heard  it  hum  through  the  air,  and  I  heard  those 
behind  me  shout  as  though  something  unlooked-for 
had  happened.  I  turned,  saw  them  gathered  on 
the  other  side  looking  after  me  blankly,  and  I  waved 
my  hat  airily  in  farewell  and  went  on  about  my 
business. 

I  felt  that  they  would  scarcely  chase  me  the  whole 
twelve  or  fifteen  miles  of  the  pass,  and  I  was  right ; 
after  I  turned  the  first  bend  I  saw  them  no  more. 

At  camp  I  was  received  with  much  astonishment, 
particularly  when  Ballard  saw  that  I  had  brought 
an  answer  to  his  note. 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"Yuh  must  V  rode  King's  Highway,"  he  said, 
looking  at  me  much  as  Perry  Potter  had  done  the 
night  before. 

I  told  him  I  did,  and  the  boys  gathered  round 
and  wanted  to  know  how  I  did  it.  I  told  them 
about  jumping  the  fence,  and  my  conceit  got  a  hard 
blow  there ;  with  one  accord  they  made  it  plain  that 
I  had  done  a  very  foolish  thing.  Range  horses,  they 
assured  me,  are  not  much  at  jumping,  as  a  rule ;  and 
wire-fences  are  their  special  abhorrence.  Frosty 
Miller  told  me,  in  confidence,  that  he  didn't  know 
which  was  the  bigger  fool,  Shylock  or  me,  and  he 
hoped  I'd  never  be  guilty  of  another  trick  like  that. 

That  rather  took  the  bloom  off  my  adventure, 
and  I  decided,  after  much  thought,  that  I  agreed 
with  Frosty:  King's  Highway  was  bad  medicine. 
I  amended  that  a  bit,  and  excepted  Beryl  King;  I 
did  not  think  she  was  "bad  medicine,"  however  acid 
might  be  her  flavor. 


92 


CHAPTER  VI. 

/  ask  Beryl  King  to  Dance. 

If  I  were  just  yarning  for  the  fun  there  is  in  it, 
I  should  say  that  I  was  back  in  King's  Highway, 
helping  Beryl  King  gather  posies  and  brush  up  her 
repartee,  the  very  next  morning — or  the  second, 
at  the  very  latest.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  though,  I 
steered  clear  of  that  pass,  and  behaved  myself  and 
stuck  to  work  for  six  long  weeks ;  that  isn't  saying  I 
never  thought  about  her,  though. 

On  the  very  last  day  of  June,  as  nearly  as  I 
could  estimate,  Frosty  rode  into  Kenmore  for  some- 
thing, and  came  back  with  that  in  his  eyes  that 
boded  mischief;  his  words,  however,  were  innocent 
enough  for  the  most  straight-laced. 

"There's  things  doing  in  Kenmore,"  he  remarked 
to  a  lot  of  us.  "Old  King  has  a  party  of  aristocrats 
out  from  New  York,  visiting — Terence  Weaver, 
half-owner  in  the  mines,  and  some  women;  they're 

93 


The     Range     Dwellers 

fixing  to  celebrate  the  Fourth  with  a  dance.  The 
women,  it  seems,  are  crazy  to  see  a  real  Montana 
dance,  and  watch  the  cowboys  chasse  around  the 
room  in  their  chaps  and  spurs  and  big  hats,  and 
with  two  or  three  six-guns  festooned  around  their 
middles,  the  way  you  see  them  in  pictures.  They 
think,  as  near  as  I  could  find  out,  that  cowboys 
always  go  to  dances  in  full  war-paint  like  that — 
and  they'll  be  disappointed  if  said  cowboys  don't 
punctuate  the  performance  by  shooting  out  the 
lights,  every  so  often."  He  looked  across  at  me, 
and  then  is  when  I  observed  the  mischief  brewing 
in  his  eyes. 

"We'll  have  to  take  it  in,"  I  said  promptly.  "I'm 
anxious  to  see  a  Montana  dance,  myself." 

"We  aren't  in  their  set,"  gloomed  Frosty,  with 
diplomatic  caution.  "I  won't  swear  they're  sending 
out  engraved  invitations,  but,  all  the  same,  we  won't 
be  expected." 

"We'll  go,  anyhow,"  I  answered  boldly.  "If 
they  want  to  see  cow-punchers,  it  seems  to  me  the 

94 


The     Range     Dwellers 

Ragged  H  can  enter  a  bunch  that  will  take  first 
prize." 

Frosty  looked  at  me,  and  permitted  himself  to 
smile.  "Uh  course,  if  you're  bound  to  go,  Ellis,  I 
guess  there's  no  stopping  yuh — and  some  of  us 
will  naturally  have  to  go  along  to  see  yuh  through. 
King's  minions  would  sure  do  things  to  yuh  if  yuh 
went  without  a  body-guard."  He  shook  his  head, 
and  cupped  his  hands  around  a  match-blaze  and  a 
cigarette,  so  that  no  one  could  tell  much  about  his 
expression. 

"I'm  bound  to  go,"  I  declared,  taking  the  cue. 
"And  I  think  I  do  need  some  of  you  to  back  me 
up.  I  think,"  I  added  judicially,  "I  shall  need  the 
whole  bunch." 

The  "bunch"  looked  at  one  another  gravely  and 
sighed.  "We'll  have  t'  go,  I  reckon,"  they  said, 
just  as  though  they  weren't  dying  to  play  the  un- 
expected guest.  So  that  was  decided,  and  there 
was  much  whispering  among  groups  when  they 
thought  the  wagon-boss  was  near,  and  much  un- 
obtrusive preparation. 

95 


The     Range     Dwellers 

It  happened  that  the  wagons  pulled  in  close  to 
the  ranch  the  day  before  the  Fourth,  intending  to 
lay  over  for  a  day  or  so.  We  were  mighty  glad 
of  it,  and  hurried  through  our  work.  I  don't  know 
why  the  rest  were  so  anxious  to  attend  that  dance, 
but  for  me,  I'm  willing  to  own  that  I  wanted  to 
see  Beryl  King.  I  knew  she'd  be  there — and  if  I 
didn't  manage,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  to  make  her 
dance  with  me,  I  should  be  very  much  surprised 
and  disappointed.  I  couldn't  remember  ever  giving 
so  much  thought  to  a  girl ;  but  I  suppose  it  was  be- 
cause she  was  so  frankly  antagonistic  that  there  was 
nothing  tame  about  our  intercourse.  I  can't  like 
girls  who  invariably  say  just  what  you  expect  them 
to  say. 

When  we  came  to  get  ready,  there  was  a  dress- 
discussion  that  a  lot  of  women  would  find  it  hard 
to  beat.  Some  of  the  boys  wanted  to  play  up  to 
the  aristocrats'  expectations,  and  wear  their  gau- 
diest neckerchiefs,  their  chaps,  spurs,  and  all  the 
guns  they  could  get  their  hands  on;  but  I  had  an 
fdea  I  thought  beat  theirs,  and  proselyted  for  all  I 

96 


The     Range     Dwellers 

was  worth.  Rankin  had  packed  a  lot  of  dress  suits 
in  one  of  my  trunks — evidently  he  thought  Mon- 
tana was  some  sort  of  house-party — and  I  wanted 
to  build  a  surprise  for  the  good  people  at  King's.  I 
wanted  the  boys  to  use  those  suits  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage. 

At  first  they  hung  back.  They  didn't  much  like 
the  idea  of  wearing  borrowed  clothes — which  atti- 
tude I  respected,  but  felt  bound  to  overrule.  I  told 
them  it  was  no  worse  than  borrowing  guns,  which 
a  lot  of  them  were  doing.  In  the  end  my  oratory 
was  rewarded  as  it  deserved;  it  was  decided  that, 
as  even  my  capacious  trunks  couldn't  be  expected  to 
hold  thirty  dress  suits,  part  of  the  crowd  should 
ride  in  full  regalia.  I  might  "tog  up"  as  many  as 
possible,  and  said  "togged"  men  must  lend  their 
guns  to  the  others ;  for  every  man  of  the  "reals"  in- 
sisted on  wearing  a  gun  dangling  over  each  hip. 

So  I  went  down  into  my  trunks,  and  disinterred 
four  dress  suits  and  three  Tuxedos,  together  with 
all  the  appurtenances  thereto.  Oh,  Rankin  was  cer- 
tainly a  wonder!  There  was  a  gay-colored  smo- 

97 


The     Range     Dwellers 

king- jacket  and  cap  that  one  of  the  boys  took  a 
fancy  to  and  insisted  on  wearing,  but  I  drew  the 
line  at  that.  We  nearly  had  a  fight  over  it,  right 
there. 

When  we  were  dressed — and  I  had  to  valet  the 
whole  lot  of  them,  except  Frosty,  who  seemed  wise 
to  polite  apparel — we  were  certainly  a  bunch  of 
winners.  Modesty  forbids  explaining  just  how  / 
appear  in  a  dress  suit.  I  will  only  say  that  my 
tailor  knew  his  business — but  the  others  were  fear- 
ful and  wonderful  to  look  upon.  To  begin  with, 
not  all  of  them  stand  six-feet-one  in  their  stocking- 
feet,  or  tip  the  scales  at  a  hundred  and  eighty  odd; 
likewise  their  shoulders  lacked  the  breadth  that 
goes  with  the  other  measurements.  Hence  my  tailor 
would  doubtless  have  wept  at  the  sight;  shoulders 
drooping  spiritlessly,  and  sleeves  turned  up,  and 
trousers  likewise.  Frosty  Miller,  though,  was  like 
a  man  with  his  mask  off ;  he  stood  there  looking  the 
gentleman  born,  and  I  couldn't  help  staring  at 
him. 

"You've  been  broken  to  society  harness,  old  man, 
98 


The     Range     Dwellers 

and  arc  bridle-wise,"  I  said,  slapping  him  on  the 
shoulder.  He  whirled  on  me  savagely,  and  his  face 
was  paler  than  I'd  ever  seen  it. 

"And  if  I  have^— what  the  hell  is  it  to  you?"  he 
asked  unpleasantly,  and  I  stammered  out  some  k:nd 
of  apology.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  pry  into  a  man's 
past. 

I  straightened  Sandy  Johnson's  tie,  turned  up  his 
sleeves  another  inch,  and  we  started  out.  And  I 
will  say  we  were  a  quaint-looking  outfit.  Perhaps 
my  meaning  will  be  clearer  when  I  say  that  every 
one  of  us  wore  the  soft,  white  "Stetson"  of  the 
range-land,  and  a  silk  handkerchief  knotted  loosely 
around  the  throat,  and  spurs  and  riding-gloves. 
I've  often  wondered  if  the  range  has  ever  seen  just 
that  wedding  of  the  East  and  the  West  before  in 
man's  apparel. 

We'd  scarcely  got  started  when  the  wind  caught 
Frosty's  coat-tails  and  slapped  them  down  along  the 
flanks  of  his  horse — an  incident  that  the  horse  met 
with  stern  disapproval.  He  went  straight  up  into 
the  air,  and  then  bucked  as  long  as  his  wind  held 

99 


The     Range     Dwellers 

out,  the  while  Frosty's  quirt  kept  time  with  the 
tails  of  his  coat. 

When  the  two  had  calmed  down  a  bit,  the  other 
boys  profited  by  Frosty's  experience,  and  tucked 
the  coat-tails  snugly  under  them — and  those  who 
wore  the  Tuxedos  congratulated  themselves  on 
their  foresight.  We  were  a  merry  party,  and  we 
were  willing  to  publish  the  fact. 

When  we  had  overtaken  the  others  we  were  still 
merrier,  for  the  spectacular  contingent  plumed 
themselves  like  peacocks  on  their  fearsomeness,  and 
guyed  us  conventionally  garbed  fellows  unmerci- 
fully. 

When  the  thirty  of  us  filed  into  the  long,  barn- 
like  hall  where  they  were  having  the  dance,  I  be- 
lieve I  can  truthfully  say  that  we  created  a  sensa- 
tion. That  "ripple  of  excitement"  which  we  read 
about  so  often  in  connection  with  belles  and  balls 
went  round  the  room.  Frosty  and  I  led  the  way, 
and  the  rest  of  the  "biscuit-shooter  brigade,"  as  the 
others  called  us,  followed  two  by  two.  Then  came 
the  real  Wild  West  show,  with  their  hats  tilted  far 

100 


The     Range     Dwellers 

back  on  their  heads  and  brazen  faces  which  it 
pained  me  to  contemplate.  We  arrived  during  that 
humming  hush  which  comes  just  after  a  number, 
and  every  one  stared  impolitely,  and  some  of  them 
not  overcordially.  I  began  to  wonder  if  we  hadn't 
done  a  rather  ill-bred  thing,  to  hurl  ourselves  so 
unceremoniously  into  the  merrymakings  of  the  en- 
emy ;  but  I  comforted  myself  with  the  thought  that 
the  dance  was  given  as  a  public  affair,  so  that  we 
were  acting  within  our  technical  rights — though  I 
own  that,  as  I  looked  around  upon  our  crowd, 
ranged  solemnly  along  the  wall,  it  struck  me  that 
we  were  a  bit  spectacular. 

She  was  there,  chatting  with  some  other  women, 
at  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  and  if  she  saw  me  enter 
the  room  she  did  not  show  any  disquietude;  from 
where  I  stood,  she  seemed  perfectly  at  ease,  and 
unconscious  of  anything  unusual  having  occurred. 
Old  King  I  could  not  see. 

A  waltz  was  announced — rather,  bellowed — and 
the  boys  drifted  away  from  me.  It  was  evident  that 
they  did  not  intend  to  become  wall  flowers.  For 

101 


The     Range     Dwellers 

myself,  it  occurred  to  me  that,  except  my  somewhat 
debatable  acquaintance  with  Miss  King,  I  did  not 
know  a  woman  in  the  room.  I  called  up  all  my 
courage  and  fortitude,  and  started  toward  her.  I 
was  determined  to  ask  her  to  dance,  and  I  got  some 
chilly  comfort  out  of  the  reflection  that  she  couldn't 
do  any  worse  than  refuse;  still,  that  would  be  quite 
bad  enough,  and  I  will  not  say  that  I  crossed  that 
room,  with  three  or  four  hundred  eyes  upon  me,  in 
any  oh-be-joyful  frame  of  mind.  I  rather  suspect 
that  my  face  resembled  that  plebeian  and  oft-men- 
tioned vegetable,  the  beet.  I  was  within  ten  feet  of 
her,  and  I  was  thinking  that  she  couldn't  possibly 
hold  that  cool,  unconscious  look  much  longer,  when 
a  hand  feminine  was  extended  from  the  row  of  si- 
lent watchers  and  caught  at  my  sleeve. 

"Ellie  Carleton,  it's  never  you!"  chirped  a  fa- 
miliar voice. 

I  turned,  a  bit  dazed  with  the  unexpected  inter- 
ruption, and  saw  that  it  was  Edith  Loroman,  whom 
I  had  last  seen  in  the  East  the  summer  before,  when 
I  was  gyrating  through  Newport  and  all  those 

102 


The     Range     Dwellers 

places,  with  Barney  MacTague  for  chaperon,  and 
whom  I  had  known  for  long.  Edith  had  chosen 
to  be  very  friendly  always,  and  I  liked  her — only, 
I  suspected  her  of  being  a  bit  too  worldly  to  suit 
me. 

"And  why  isn't  it  I  ?  I  can't  see  that  my  identity 
is  more  surprising  than  yours,"  I  retorted,  pulling 
myself  together.  It  did  certainly  give  me  a  start 
to  see  her  there,  and  looking  so  exactly  as  she  had 
always  looked.  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  more 
to  say,  so,  as  the  music  had  started,  I  asked  her  if 
she  had  any  dances  saved  for  me.  I  couldn't  de- 
cently leave  her  and  carry  out  my  original  plan, 
you  see. 

She  laughed  at  my  ignorance,  and  told  me  that 
this  was  a  "frontier"  dance,  and  there  were  no 
programs. 

"You  just  promise  one  or  two  dances  ahead," 
she  explained.  "As  many  as  you  can  remember. 
Beryl  told  me  all  about  how  they  do  here;  Beryl 
King  is  my  cousin,  you  know." 

I  didn't  know,  but  I  was  content  to  take  her  word 
103 


The     Range     Dwellers 

for  it,  and  asked  her  for  that  dance  and  got  it,  and 
she  chattered  on  about  everything  under  the  sun, 
and  told  all  about  how  they  happened  to  be  in  Mon- 
tana, and  how  long  they  were  going  to  stay,  and 
that  Mr.  Weaver  had  brought  his  auto,  and  another 
fellow — I  forget  his  name — had  intended  to  bring 
his,  but  didn't,  and  that  they  were  going  to  tour 
through  to  Helena,  on  their  way  home,  and  it 
would  be  such  fun,  and  that  if  I  didn't  come  over 
right  away  to  call  upon  her,  she  would  never  for- 
give me. 

"There's  a  drawback,"  I  told  her.  "I'm  not  on 
your  cousin's  visiting-list;  I've  never  even  been  in- 
troduced to  her." 

"That,"  said  Miss  Edith  complacently,  "is  easily 
remedied.  You  know  mama  well  enough,  I  should' 
think.  Aunt  Lodema — funny  name,  isn't  it? — is 
stopping  here  all  summer,  with  Beryl.  Beryl  has 
the  strangest  tastes.  She  will  spend  every  summer 
out  here  with  her  father,  and  if  any  of  us  poor  mor- 
tals want  a  glimpse  of  her  between  seasons,  we 
must  come  where  she  is.  She's  a  dear,  and  you 


The     Range     Dwellers 

must  know  her,  even  if  you  do  hold  yourself  su- 
perior to  us  women.  She's  almost  as  much  a  crank 
on  athletics  as  you  are ;  you  ought  to  see  her  on  the 
links,  once!  That's  why  I  can't  understand  her  run- 
ning away  off  here  every  summer.  And,  by  the 
way,  Ellie,  what  are  you  doing  here — a  stranger?" 

"I'm  earning  my  bread  by  the  sweat  of  my 
brow,"  I  told  her  plainly.  "I'm  a  cowboy — a 
would-be,  I  suppose  I  should  say." 

She  looked  up  at  me  horrified.  "Have  you — lost 
— your  millions?"  she  wanted  to  know.  Edith  Lor- 
oman  was  always  a  straightforward  questioner,  at 
any  rate. 

"The  millions,"  I  told  her,  laughing,  "are  all 
right,  I  believe.  Dad  has  a  cattle-ranch  in  this  part 
of  the  world,  and  he  sent  me  out  here  to  reform  me. 
He  meant  it  as  a  punishment,  but  at  present  I'm 
getting  rather  the  best  of  the  deal,  I  think." 

"And  where's  Barney?"  she  asked.  "One  reason 
I  came  near  not  recognizing  you  was  because  you 
hadn't  your  shadow  along." 

"Barney  is  luxuriating  in  idleness  somewhere," 
105 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  answered  lightly.  "One  couldn't  expect  him  to 
turn  savage,  just  because  I  did.  I  can't  imagine 
Barney  working  for  his  daily  bread." 

"I  can/'  retorted  Miss  Edith,  "every  bit  as  easily 
as  I  can  imagine  you !  And,  if  you'll  pardon  me,  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  either." 

On  the  whole,  I  could  hardly  blame  her.  As  she 
had  always  known  me,  I  must  have  appeared  to  her 
somewhat  like  Solomon's  lilies.  But  I  did  not  try 
to  convince  her;  there  were  other  things  more  im- 
portant. 

I  went  and  made  my  bow  to  Mrs.  Loroman,  and 
answered  sundry  questions — more  conventional,  I 
may  say,  than  were  those  of  her  daughter.  Mrs. 
Loroman  was  one  of  the  best  type  of  society  dames, 
and  I  will  own  that  I  was  a  bit  surprised  to  find 
that  she  was  Beryl  King's  aunt.  In  spite  of  that 
indefinable  little  air  of  breeding  that  I  had  felt  in 
my  two  meetings  with  Miss  King,  I  had  thought 
of  her  as  distinctly  a  daughter  of  the  range-land. 

"I'll  introduce  you  to  my  cousin  and  aunt  now, 
if  you  like,"  Edith  offered  generously,  in  an  under- 

1 06 


The     Range     Dwellers 

tone  —for  the  two  were  not  ten  feet  from  us,  al- 
though Miss  King  had  not  yet  seen  fit  to  know 
that  I  was  in  the  room.  How  a  woman  can  act  so 
deuced  innocent,  beats  me. 

Miss  King  lowered  her  chin  as  much  as  half  an 
inch,  and  looked  at  me  as  if  I  were  an  exceeding 
commonplace,  inanimate  object  that  could  not  pos- 
sibly interest  her.  Her  aunt,  Lodema  King,  was  al- 
most as  bad,  I  think;  I  didn't  notice  particularly. 
But  Miss  King's  I-do-not-know-you-sir  air  could 
not  save  her;  I  hadn't  schemed  like  a  villain  for  a 
week,  and  ridden  twenty-five  miles  at  a  good  fast 
clip  after  a  stiff  day's  work,  just  to  be  presented  and 
walk  away.  I  asked  her  foi  the  next  waltz. 

"The  next  waltz  is  promised  to  Mr.  Weaver," 
she  told  me  freezingly. 

I  asked  for  the  next  two-step. 

"The  next  two-step  is  also  promised — to  Mr. 
Weaver." 

I  began  to  have  unfriendly  feelings  toward  Mr. 
Weaver.  "Will  you  be  good  enough  to  inform  me 

107 


The     Range     Dwellers 

what  dance  is  not  promised  ?"    I  almost  finished  "to 
Mr.  Weaver,"  but  I'm  not  quite  a  cad,  I  hope. 

"Really,  we  haven't  programs  here  to-night,"  she 
parried. 

I  played  a  reckless  lead.  "I  wonder,"  I  said, 
looking  straight  down  into  those  eyes  of  hers,  and 
hoping  she  couldn't  suspect  the  prickles  chasing 
over  me  at  the  very  look  of  them — "I  wonder  if  it's 
because  you're  afraid  to  dance  with  me  ?" 

"Are  you  so — fearsome?"  she  retorted  evenly, 
and  I  got  back  instantly : 

"It  would  almost  seem  so." 

I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  lip  go  in  be- 
tween her  teeth.  (I  should  like  to  say  something 
about  those  teeth — only  it  would  sound  like  the 
advertisement  of  a  dentifrice,  for  I  should  be  bound 
to  mention  pearls  once  or  twice.) 

"You  are  flattering  yourself,  Mr.  Carleton;  I  am 
not  at  all  afraid  to  dance  with  you,"  she  said — and, 
oh,  the  tone  of  her ! 

"I  shall  expect  you  to  prove  that  instantly,"  I 
retorted,  still  looking  straight  into  her  face. 

108 


The     Range     Dwellers 

A  quadrille — the  old-fashioned  kind — was  called, 
and  she  looked  up  at  me  and  put  out  her  hand. 
Only  an  idiot  would  wonder  whether  I  took  it. 

"This  isn't  a  fair  test,"  I  told  her,  after  leading 
her  out  in  position.  "You  won't  be  dancing  with 
me  a  quarter  of  the  time,  you  know.  Only  the 
closest  observer  may  tell,  after  we  once  get  going, 
whom  you  are  dancing  with." 

"That,"  she  retorted,  with  a  gleam  in  her  eyes 
I  couldn't — being  no  lady's  man — interpret — "that 
is  a  mere  quibble,  and  would  not  hold  in  court." 

"It's  going  to  hold  in  this  court,"  I  answered 
boldly,  and  wished  I  had  not  so  systematically 
wasted  my  opportunities  in  the  past — that  I  had 
spent  more  time  drinking  tea  and  studying  the  "in- 
fernal feminine." 

She  gave  me  a  quick,  puzzling  glance,  and  as  we 
were  commanded  at  that  instant  to  salute  our  part- 
ners, she  swept  me  a  half -curtsy  that  made  me  grit 
my  teeth,  though  I  tried  to  make  my  own  bow  quite 
as  elaborate  and  mocking.  I  couldn't  make  her  out 
at  all  during  that  dance.  Whenever  we  came  to- 

109 


The     Range     Dwellers 

gather  there  was  that  little  air  of  mockery  in  every 
move  she  made,  and  yet  something  in  her  eyes 
seemed  to  invite  and  to  challenge.  The  first  time 
we  were  privileged,  by  the  old-fashioned  "caller," 
to  "swing  our  partners,"  milady  would  have  given 
me  her  finger-tips — only  I  wouldn't  have  it  that 
way.  I  held  her  as  close  as  I  dared,  and — I  don't 
know  but  I'm  a  fool — she  didn't  seem  in  any  great 
rage  over  it.  Lord,  how  I  did  wish  I  was  wise  to 
the  ways  of  women ! 

The  next  waltz  I  couldn't  have,  because  she  was 
to  dance  it  with  Mr.  Weaver.  So  I  had  the  fun 
of  "sitting  there  watching  them  fly  around  the  room, 
and  getting  a  good-sized  dislike  of  the  fellow  over 
it.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  one  of  those  large-minded 
men  who  are  always  painfully  unprejudiced.  Wea- 
ver looked  like  a  pretty  good  sort,  and  under  other 
circumstances  I  should  probably  have  liked  him,  but 
as  it  was  I  emphatically  did  not. 

However,  I  got  a  waltz,  after  a  heart-breaking 
delay,  and  it  was  worth  waiting  for.  I  had  felt  all 
along  that  we  could  hit  it  off  pretty  well  together, 

no 


The     Range     Dwellers 

and  we  did.  We  didn't  say  much — we  just  floated 
off  into  another  world — or  I  did — and  there  was 
nothing  I  wanted  to  say  that  I  dared  say.  I  call 
that  a  good  excuse  for  silence. 

Afterward  I  asked  her  for  another,  and  she 
looked  at  me  curiously. 

"You're  a  very  hard  man  to  convince,  Mr.  Carle- 
ton,"  she  told  me,  with  that  same  queer  look  in 
her  eyes.  I  was  beginning  to  get  drunk — intoxi- 
cated, if  you  like  the  word  better — on  those  same 
eyes;  they  always  affected  me,  somehow,  as  if  I'd 
never  seen  them  before;  always  that  same  little 
tingle  of  surprise  went  over  me  when  she  lifted 
those  heavy  fringes  of  lashes.  I'm  not  psychologist 
enough  to  explain  this,  and  I'm  strictly  no  good  at 
introspection;  it  was  that  way  with  me,  and  that 
will  have  to  do. 

I  told  her  she  probably  would  never  meet  another 
who  required  so  much  convincing,  and,  after  wran- 
gling over  the  matter  politely  for  a  minute,  got  her 
to  promise  me  another  waltz,  said  promise  to  be 
redeemed  after  supper. 

in 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  tried  to  talk  to  "Aunt  Lodema,"  but  she  would 
have  none  of  me,  and  she  seemed  to  think  I  had 
more  than  my  share  of  effrontery  to  attempt  such  a 
thing.  Mrs.  Loroman  was  better,  and  I  filled  in 
fifteen  minutes  or  so  very  pleasantly  with  her.  Af- 
ter that  I  went  over  to  Edith  and  got  her  to  sit  out 
a  dance  with  me. 

The  first  thing  she  asked  me  was  about  Frosty. 
Who  was  he  ?  and  why  was  he  here  ?  and  how  long 
had  he  been  here  ?  I  told  her  all  I  knew  about  him, 
and  then  turned  frank  and  asked  her  why  she 
wanted  to  know. 

"Mama  hasn't  recognized  him — yet,"  she  said 
confidentially,  "but  I  was  sure  he  was  the  same. 
He  has  shaved  his  mustache,  and  he's  much  browner 
and  heavier,  but  he's  Fred  Miller — and  why  doesn't 
he  come  and  speak  to  me?" 

Out  of  much  words,  I  gathered  that  she  and 
Frosty  were,  to  put  it  mildly,  old  friends.  She 
didn't  just  say  there  was  an  engagement  between 
them,  but  she  hinted  it;  his  father  had  "had  trou- 
ble"— the  vagueness  of  women ! — and  Edith's  mama 

112 


The     Range     Dwellers 

had  turned  Frosty  down,  to  put  it  bluntly.  Frosty 
had,  ostensibly,  gone  to  South  Africa,  and  that  was 
the  last  of  him.  Miss  Edith  seemed  quite  dis- 
turbed over  seeing  him  there  in  Kenmore.  I  told 
her  that  if  Frosty  wanted  to  stay  in  the  background, 
that  was  his  privilege  and  my  gain,  and  she  smiled 
at  me  vaguely  and  said  of  course  it  didn't  really 
matter. 

At  supper-time  our  crowd  got  the  storekeeper 
intimidated  sufficiently  to  open  his  store  and  sell  us 
something  to  eat.  The  King  faction  had  looked  up- 
on us  blackly,  though  there  were  too  many  of  us 
to  make  it  safe  meddling,  and  none  of  us  were 
minded  to  break  bread  with  them.  Instead,  we  sat 
around  on  the  counter  and  on  boxes  in  the  store, 
and  ate  crackers  and  sardines  and  things  like  that. 
I  couldn't  help  remembering  my  last  Fourth,  and 
the  banquet  I  had  given  on  board  the  Molly  Stark 
— my  yacht,  named  after  the  lady  known  to  history, 
whom  dad  claims  for  an  ancestress — and  I  laughed 
out  loud.  The  boys  wanted  to  know  the  cause  of 
my  mirth,  and  so,  with  a  sardine  laid  out  decently 


The     Range     Dwellers 

between  two  crackers  in  one  hand,  and  a  blue  "gran- 
ite" cup  of  plebeian  beer  in  the  other,  I  told  them 
all  about  that  banquet,  and  some  of  the  things  we 
had  to  eat  and  drink — whereat  they  laughed,  too. 
The  contrast  was  certainly  amusing.  But,  some- 
how, I  wouldn't  have  changed,  just  then,  if  I  could 
have  done  so.  That,  also,  is  something  I'm  not 
psychologist  enough  to  explain. 

That  last  waltz  with  Miss  King  was  like  to  prove 
disastrous,  for  we  swished  uncomfortably  close  to 
her  father,  standing  scowling  at  Frosty  and  some 
of  the  others  of  our  crowd  near  the  door.  Luckily, 
he  didn't  see  us,  and  at  the  far  end  Miss  King 
stopped  abruptly.  Her  cheeks  were  pink,  and  her 
eyes  looked  up  at  me — wistfully,  I  could  almost  say. 

"I  think,  Mr.  Carleton,  we  had  better  stop,"  she 
said  hesitatingly.  "I  don't  believe  your  enmity  is 
so  ungenerous  as  to  wish  to  cause  me  unpleasant- 
ness. You  surely  are  convinced  now  that  I  am  not 
afraid  of  you,  so  the  truce  is  over." 

I  did  not  pretend  to  misunderstand.  "I'm  going 
home  at  once/'  I  told  her  gently,  "and  I  shall  take 

114 


» 

The     Range     Dwellers 

my  spectacular  crowd  along  with  me;  but  I'm  not 
sorry  I  came,  and  I  hope  you  are  not." 

She  looked  at  me  soberly,  and  then  away.  "There 
is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  say,"  she  said,  in  so 
low  a  tone  I  had  to  lean  to  catch  the  words.  "Please 
don't  try  to  ride  through  King's  Highway  again; 
father  hates  you  quite  enough  as  it  is,  and  it  is 
scarcely  the  part  of  a  gentleman  to  needlessly  pro- 
voke an  old  man." 

I  could  feel  myself  grow  red.  What  a  cad  I  must 
seem  to  her !  "King's  Highway  shall  be  safe  from 
my  vandal  feet  hereafter,"  I  told  her,  and  meant  it. 

"So  long  as  you  keep  that  promise,"  she  said, 
smiling  a  bit,  "I  shall  try  to  remember  mine  enemy 
with  respect." 

"And  I  hope  that  mine  enemy  shall  sometimes 
view  the  beauties  of  White  Divide  from  a  little  dis- 
tance— say  half  a  mile  or  so,"  I  answered  daringly. 

She  heard  me,  but  at  that  minute  that  Weaver 
chap  came  up,  and  she  began  talking  to  him  as 
though  he  was  her  long-lost  friend.  I  was  clearly 
out  of  it,  so  I  told  Edith  and  her  mother  good 

"5 


The     Range     Dwellers 

night,  bowed  to  "Aunt  Lodema"  and  got  the  stony 
stare  for  my  reward,  and  rounded  up  my  crowd. 

We  passed  old  King  in  a  body,  and  he  growled 
something  I  could  not  hear;  one  of  the  boys  told 
me,  afterward,  that  it  was  just  as  well  I  didn't. 
We  rode  away  under  the  stars,  and  I  wished  that 
night  had  been  four  times  as  long,  and  that  Beryl 
King  would  be  as  nice  to  me  as  was  Edith  Loroman. 


116 


CHAPTER  VII. 

One  Day  Too  Late! 

I  suppose  there  is  always  a  time  when  a  fellow 
passes  quite  suddenly  out  of  the  cub-stage  and  feels 
himself  a  man — or,  at  least,  a  very  great  desire  to 
be  one.  Until  that  Fourth  of  July  life  had  been  to 
me  a  playground,  with  an  interruption  or  two  to 
the  game.  When  dad  took  such  heroic  measures  to 
instil  some  sense  into  my  head,  he  interrupted  the 
game  for  ten  days  or  so — and  then  I  went  back  to 
my  play,  satisfied  with  new  toys.  At  least,  that  is 
the  way  it  seemed  to  me.  But  after  that  night, 
things  were  somehow  different.  I  wanted  to 
amount  to  something;  I  was  absolutely  ashamed  of 
my  general  uselessness,  and  I  came  near  writing  to 
dad  and  telling  him  so. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  I  didn't  know  just  what 
it  was  I  wanted  to  do,  except  ride  over  to  that  little 
pinnacle  just  out  from  King's  Highway,  and  watch 

117 


The     Range     Dwellers 

for  Beryl  King;  that,  of  course,  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  maudlin,  anyway. 

On  the  third  day  after,  as  Frosty  and  I  were  ri- 
ding circle  quite  silently  and  moodily  together,  we 
rode  up  into  a  little  coulee  on  the  southwestern  side 
of  White  Divide,  and  came  quite  unexpectedly  upon 
a  little  picnic-party  camped  comfortably  down  by 
the  spring  where  we  had  meant  to  slake  our  own 
thirst.  Of  course,  it  was  the  Kings'  house-party; 
they  were  the  only  luxuriously  idle  crowd  in  the 
country. 

Edith  and  her  mother  greeted  me  with  much  ap- 
parent joy,  but,  really,  I  felt  sorry  for  Frosty;  all 
that  saved  him  from  recognition  then  was  the  provi- 
dential near-sightedness  of  Mrs.  Loroman.  I  ob- 
served that  he  was  careful  not  to  come  close  enough 
to  the  lady  to  run  any  risk. 

Aunt  Lodema  tilted  her  chin  at  me,  and  Beryl — > 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  about 
Beryl.  When  I  first  rode  up  to  them,  and  she 
looked  at  me,  I  fancied  there  was  a  welcome  in  her 
eyes ;  after  that  there  was  anything  else  you  like  to 

118 


The     Range     Dwellers 

name.  I  looked  several  times  at  her  to  make  sure, 
but  I  couldn't  tell  any  more  what  she  was  thinking 
than  one  can  read  the  face  of  a  Chinaman.  (That 
isn't  a  pretty  comparison,  I  know,  but  it  gives  my 
meaning,  for,  of  all  humans,  Chinks  are  about  the 
hardest  to  understand  or  read.)  I  was  willing, 
however,  to  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  studying  the 
subject  of  her  thoughts,  and  got  off  my  horse  al- 
most as  soon  as  Mrs.  Loroman  and  Edith  invited 
me  to  stop  and  eat  lunch  with  them.  That  Weaver 
fellow  was  not  present,  but  another  man,  whom 
they  introduced  as  Mr.  Tenbrooke,  was  sitting  dole- 
fully on  a  rock,  watching  a  maid  unpacking  eatables. 
Edith  told  me  that  "Uncle  Homer" — which  was 
old  man  King — and  Mr.  Weaver  would  be  along 
presently.  They  had  driven  over  to  Kenmore  first, 
on  a  matter  of  business. 

Frosty,  I  could  see,  was  not  going  to  stay,  even 
though  Edith,  in  a  polite  little  voice  that  made  me 
wonder  at  her,  invited  him  to  do  so.  Edith  was 
not  the  hostess,  and  had  really  no  right  to  do  that. 

I  tried  to  get  a  word  with  Miss  Beryl,  found 
119 


The     Range     Dwellers 

myself  having  a  good  many  words  with  Edith,  in- 
stead,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  I  became  as  thoroughly 
disgusted  with  unkind  fate  as  ever  I've  been  in  my 
life,  and  suddenly  remembered  that  duty  made  fur- 
ther delay  absolutely  impossible.  We  rode  away, 
with  Edith  protesting  prettily  at  what  she  was 
pleased  to  call  my  bad  manners. 

For  the  rest  of  the  way  up  that  coulee  Frosty  and 
I  were  even  more  silent  and  moody  than  we  had 
been  before.  The  only  time  we  spoke  was  when 
Frosty  asked  me  gruffly  how  long  those  people  ex- 
pected to  stay  out  here.  I  told  him  a  week,  and  he 
grunted  something  under  his  breath  about  female 
fortune-hunters.  I  couldn't  see  what  he  was  driving 
at,  for  I  certainly  should  never  think  of  accusing 
Edith  and  her  mother  of  being  that  especial  brand 
of  abhorrence,  but  he  was  in  a  bitter  mood,  and  I 
wouldn't  argue  with  him  then — I  had  troubles  of 
my  own  to  think  of.  I  was  beginning  to  call  my- 
self several  kinds  of  a  fool  for  letting  a  girl — how- 
ever wonderful  her  eyes — give  me  bad  half-hours 
quite  so  frequently;  the  thing  had  never  happened 

120 


The     Range     Dwellers 

to  me  before,  and  I  had  known  hundreds  of  nice 
girls — approximately.  When  a  fellow  goes  through 
a  co-ed  course,  and  has  a  dad  whom  the  papers  call 
financier,  he  gets  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  a 
few  girls.  The  trouble  with  me  was,  I  never  gave 
the  whole  bunch  as  much  thought  as  I  was  giving 
to  Beryl  King — and  the  more  I  thought  about  her, 
the  less  satisfaction  there  was  in  the  thinking. 

I  waited  a  day  or  two,  and  then  practically  ran 
away  from  my  work  and  rode  over  to  that  little 
butte.  Some  one  was  sitting  on  the  same  flat  rock, 
and  I  climbed  up  to  the  place  with  more  haste  than 
grace,  I  imagine.  When  I  reached  the  top,  panting 
like  the  purr  of  the  Yellow  Peril — my  automobile — 
when  it  gets  warmed  up  and  going  smoothly,  I  dis- 
covered that  it  was  Edith  Loroman  sitting  placidly, 
with  a  camera  on  her  knees,  doing  things  to  the  in- 
ternal organs  of  the  thing.  I  don't  know  much 
about  cameras,  so  I  can't  be  more  explicit. 

"If  it  isn't  Ellie,  looking  for  all  the  world  like 
the  Virginian  just  stepped  down  from  behind  the 
footlights!"  was  her  greeting.  "Where  in  the 

121 


The     Range     Dwellers 

world  have  you  been,  that  you  haven't  been  over  to 
see  us?" 

"You  must  know  that  the  palace  of  the  King  is 
closed  against  the  Carletons,"  I  said,  and  I'm 
afraid  I  said  it  a  bit  crossly ;  I  hadn't  climbed  that 
unmerciful  butte  just  to  bandy  commonplaces  with 
Edith  Loroman,  even  if  we  were  old  friends.  There 
are  times  when  new  enemies  are  more  diverting 
than  the  oldest  of  old  friends. 

"Well,  you  could  come  when  Uncle  Homer  is 
away — which  he  often  is,"  she  pouted.  "Every 
Sunday  he  drives  over  to  Kenmore  and  pokes 
around  his  miners  and  mines,  and  often  Terence 
and  Beryl  go  with  him,  so  you  could  come " 

"No,  thank  you."  I  put  on  the  dignity  three 
deep  there.  "If  I  can't  come  when  your  uncle  is  at 
home,  I  won't  sneak  in  when  he's  gone.  I — how 
does  it  happen  you  are  away  out  here  by  yourself  ?" 

"Well,"  she  explained,  still  doing  things  to  the 
camera,  "Beryl  came  out  here  yesterday,  and  made 
a  sketch  of  the  divide;  I  just  happened  to  see  her 
putting  it  away.  So  I  made  her  tell  me  where  she 

122 


The     Range     Dwellers 

got  that  view-point,  and  I  wanted  her  to  come  with 
me,  so  I  could  get  a  snap  shot;  it  is  pretty,  from 
here.  But  she  went  over  to  the  mines  with  Mr. 
Weaver,  and  I  had  to  come  alone.  Beryl  likes  to 
be  around  those  dirty  mines — but  I  can't  bear  it. 
And,  now  I'm  here,  something's  gone  wrong  with 
the  thing,  so  I  can't  wind  the  film.  Do  you  know 
how  to  fix  it,  Ellie?" 

I  didn't,  and  I  told  her  so,  in  a  word.  Edith 
pouted  again — she  has  a  pretty  mouth  that  looks 
well  all  tied  up  in  a  knot,  and  I  have  a  slight  sus- 
picion that  she  knows  it — and  said  that  a  fellow 
who  could  take  an  automobile  all  to  pieces  and  put 
it  together  again  ought  to  be  able  to  fix  a  kodak. 
That's  the  way  some  women  reason,  I  believe — just 
as  though  cars  and  kodaks  are  twin  brothers. 

Our  conversation,  as  I  remember  it  now,  was 
decidedly  flat  and  dull.  I  kept  thinking  of  Beryl 
being  there  the  day  before — and  I  never  knew;  of 
her  being  off  somewhere  to-day  with  that  Weaver 
fellow — and  I  knew  it  and  couldn't  do  a  thing.  I 
hardly  know  which  was  the  more  unpleasant  to 

123 


The     Range     Dwellers 

dwell  upon,  but  I  do  know  that  it  made  me  mighty 
poor  company  for  Edith.  I  sat  there  on  a  near-by 
rock  and  lighted  cigarettes,  only  to  let  them  go  out, 
and  glowered  at  King's  Highway,  off  across  the 
flat,  as  if  it  were  the  mouth  of  the  bottomless  pit.  I 
can't  wonder  that  Edith  called  me  a  bear,  and 
asked  me  repeatedly  if  I  had  toothache,  or  any- 
thing. 

By  and  by  she  had  her  kodak  in  working  order 
again,  and  took  two  or  three  pictures  of  the  divide. 
Edith  is  very  pretty,  I  believe,  and  looks  her  best 
in  short  walking-costume.  I  wondered  why  she 
had  not  ridden  out  to  the  butte ;  Beryl  had,  the 
time  I  met  her  there,  I  remembered.  She  had  a 
deep-chested  blue  roan  that  looked  as  if  he  could 
run,  and  I  had  noticed  that  she  wore  the  divided 
skirt,  which  is  so  popular  among  women  who  ride. 
I  don't,  as  a  rule,  notice  much  what  women  have 
on — but  Beryl  King's  feet  are  altogether  too  small 
for  the  least  observant  man  to  pass  over.  Edith's 
feet  were  well  shod,  but  commonplace. 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  have  one  of  those  pictures 
124 


The     Range     Dwellers 

when  they're  done,"  I  told  her,  as  amiably  as  I 
could. 

She  pushed  back  a  lock  of  hair.  "I'll  send  you 
one,  if  you  like,  when  I  get  home.  What  address 
do  you  claim,  in  this  wilderness  ?" 

I  wrote  it  down  for  her  and  went  my  way,  feel- 
ing a  badly  used  young  man,  with  a  strong  inclina- 
tion to  quarrel  with  fate.  Edith  had  managed,  dur- 
ing her  well-meant  efforts  at  entertaining  me,  to 
couple  Mr.  Weaver's  name  all  too  frequently  with 
that  of  her  cousin.  I  found  it  very  depressing — a 
good  many  things,  in  fact,  were  depressing  that 
day. 

I  went  back  to  camp  and  stuck  to  work  for  the 
rest  of  that  week — until  some  of  the  boys  told  me 
that  they  had  seen  the  Kings'  guests  scooting  across 
the  prairie  in  the  big  touring-car  of  Weaver's,  evi- 
dently headed  for  Helena. 

After  that  I  got  restless  again,  and  every  mile 
the  round-up  moved  south  I  took  as  a  special  griev- 
ance ;  it  put  that  much  greater  distance  between  me 
and  King's  Highway — and  I  had  got  to  that  un- 

125 


The     Range     Dwellers 

healthy  stage  where  every  mile  wore  on  my  nerves, 
and  all  I  wanted  was  to  moon  around  that  little 
butte.  I  believe  I  should  even  have  taken  a  morbid 
pleasure  in  watching  the  light  in  her  window  o' 
nights,  if  it  had  been  at  all  practicable. 


126 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  Fight  and  a  Race  for  Life. 

It  was  between  the  spring  round-up  and  the  fall, 
while  the  boys  were  employed  in  desultory  fashion 
at  the  home  ranch,  breaking  in  new  horses  and  the 
like,  and  while  I  was  indefatigably  wearing  a  trail 
straight  across  country  to  that  little  butte — and  get- 
ting mighty  little  out  of  it  save  the  exercise  and 
much  heart-burnings — that  the  message  came. 

A  man  rode  up  to  the  corrals  on  a  lather-gray 
horse,  coming  from  Kenmore,  where  was  a  tele- 
phone-station, connected  from  Osage.  I  read  the 
message  incredulously.  Dad  sick  unto  death? 
Such  a  thing  had  never  happened — couldn't  happen, 
it  seemed  to  me.  It  was  unbelievable;  not  to  be 
thought  of  or  tolerated.  But  all  the  while  I  was 
planning  and  scheming  to  shave  off  every  superflu- 
ous minute,  and  get  to  where  he  was. 

I  held  out  the  paper  to  Perry  Potter. 
127 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"Have  some  one  saddle  up  Shy  lock,"  I  ordered, 
quite  as  if  he  had  been  Rankin.  "And  Frosty  will 
have  to  go  with  me  as  far  as  Osage.  We  can  make 
it  by  to-morrow  noon — through  King's  Highway. 
I  mean  to  get  that  early  afternoon  train." 

The  last  sentence  I  sent  back  over  my  shoulder, 
on  my  way  to  the  house.  Dad  sick — dying?  I 
cursed  the  miles  between  us.  Frisco  was  a  long, 
a  terribly  long,  way  off ;  it  seemed  in  another  world. 

By  then  I  was  on  my  way  back  to  the  corral,  with 
a  decent  suit  of  clothes  on  and  a  few  things  stuffed 
into  a  bag,  and  with  a  roll  of  money — money  that 
I  had  earned — in  my  pocket.  I  couldn't  have  been 
ten  minutes,  but  it  seemed  more.  And  Frisco  was 
a  long  way  off ! 

"You'd  better  take  the  rest  of  the  boys  part  way," 
Potter  greeted  dryly  as  I  came  up. 

I  brushed  past  him  and  swung  up  into  the  saddle, 
feeling  that  if  I  stopped  to  answer  I  might  be  too 
late.  I  had  a  foolish  notion  that  even  a  long  breath 
would  conspire  to  delay  me.  Frosty  was  already  on 
his  horse,  and  I  noticed,  without  thinking  about  it 

128 


The     Range     Dwellers 

at  the  time,  that  he  was  riding  a  long-legged  sorrel, 
"Spikes,"  that  could  match  Shylock  on  a  long  chase 
— as  this  was  like  to  be. 

We  were  off  at  a  run,  without  once  looking  back 
or  saying  good-by  to  a  man  of  them ;  for  farewells 
take  minutes  in  the  saying,  and  minutes  meant — 
more  than  I  cared  to  think  about  just  then.  They 
were  good  fellows,  those  cowboys,  but  I  left  them 
standing  awkwardly,  as  men  do  in  the  face  of 
calamity  they  may  not  hinder,  without  a  thought  of 
whether  I  should  ever  see  one  of  them  again.  With 
Frosty  galloping  at  my  right,  elbow  to  elbow,  we 
faced  the  dim,  purple  outline  of  White  Divide. 

Already  the  dusk  was  creeping  over  the  prairie- 
land,  and  little  sleepy  birds  started  out  of  the 
grasses  and  flew  protesting  away  from  our  rush 
past  their  nesting-places.  Frosty  spoke  when  we 
had  passed  out  of  the  home-field,  even  in  our  haste 
stopping  to  close  and  tie  fast  the  gate  behind  us. 

"You  don't  want  to  run  your  horse  down  in  the 
first  ten  miles,  Ellis;  we'll  make  time  by  taking  it 
easy  at  first,  and  you'll  get  there  just  as  soon." 

129 


e     Range     Dwellers 

I  knew  he  was  right  about  it,  and  pulled  Shylock 
down  to  the  steady  lope  that  was  his  natural  gait. 
It  was  hard,  though,  to  just  "mosey"  along  as  if  we 
were  starting  out  to  kill  time  and  earn  our  daily 
wage  in  the  easiest  possible  manner.  One's  nerves 
demanded  an  unusual  pace — a  pace  that  would 
soothe  fear  by  its  very  headlong  race  against  mis- 
fortune. 

Once  or  twice  it  occurred  to  me  to  wonder,  just 
for  a  minute,  how  we  should  fare  in  King's  High- 
way; but  mostly  my  thoughts  stuck  to  dad,  and 
how  it  happened  that  he  was  "critically  ill,"  as  the 
message  had  put  it.  Crawford  had  sent  that  mes- 
sage; I  knew  from  the  precise  way  it  was  worded 
— Crawford  never  said  sick — and  Crawford  was 
about  as  conservative  a  man  as  one  could  well  be, 
and  be  human.  He  was  as  unemotional  as  a  prop- 
erly trained  footman;  Jenks,  our  butler,  showed 
more  feeling.  But  Crawford,  if  he  was  conserva- 
tive, was  also  conscientious.  Dad  had  had  him  for 
ten  years,  and  trusted  him  a  million  miles  farther 
than  he  would  trust  anybody  else — for  Crawford 

130 


The     Range     Dwellers 

could  no  more  lie  than  could  the  multiplication- 
table;  if  he  said  dad  was  "critically  ill,"  that  settled 
it;  dad  was.  I  used  to  tell  Barney  MacTague, 
when  he  thought  it  queer  that  I  knew  so  little  about 
dad's  affairs,  that  dad  was  a  fireproof  safe,  c.nd 
Crawford  was  the  combination  lock.  But  perhaps 
it  was  the  other  way  around;  at  any  rate,  they 
understood  each  other  perfectly,  and  no  other  living 
man  understood  either. 

The  darkness  flowed  down  over  the  land  and  hid 
the  farther  hills;  the  sky-line  crept  closer  until 
White  Divide  seemed  the  boundary  of  the  world, 
and  all  beyond  its  tumbled  shade  was  untried  mys- 
tery. Frosty,  a  shadowy  figure  rising  and  falling 
regularly  beside  me,  turned  his  face  and  spoke 
again : 

"We  ought  to  make  Pochette's  Crossing  by  day- 
light, or  a  little  after— with  luck,"  he  said.  "We'll 
have  to  get  horses  from  him  to  go  on  with;  these 
will  be  all  in,  when  we  get  that  far." 

"We'll  try  and  sneak  through  the  pass,"  I  an- 
swered, putting  unpleasant  thoughts  resolutely  be- 


The     Range     Dwellers 

hind  me.  "We  can't  take  time  to  argue  the  point 
out  with  old  King." 

"Sneak  nothing,"  Frosty  retorted  grimly.  "You 
don't  know  King,  if  you're  counting  on  that." 

I  came  near  asking  how  he  expected  to  get 
through,  then;  when  I  remembered  my  own  spec- 
tacular flight,  on  a  certain  occasion,  I  felt  that 
Frosty  was  calmly  disowning  our  only  hope. 

We  rode  quietly  into  the  mouth  of  King's  High- 
way, our  horses  stepping  softly  in  the  deep  sand 
of  the  trail  as  if  they,  too,  realized  the  exigencies 
of  the  situation.  We  crossed  the  little  stream  that 
is  the  first  baby  beginning  of  Honey  Creek — which 
flows  through  our  ranch — with  scarce  a  splash  to 
betray  our  passing,  and  stopped  before  the  closed 
gate.  Frosty  got  down  to  swing  it  open,  and  his 
fingers  touched  a  padlock  doing  business  with  bull- 
dog pertinacity.  Clearly,  King  was  minded  to 
protect  himself  from  unwelcome  evening  callers. 

"We'll  have  to  take  down  the  wires,"  Frosty 
murmured,  coming  back  to  where  I  waited.  "Got 
your  gun  handy?  Yuh  might  need  it  before  long." 

132 


The     Range     Dwellers 

Frosty  was  not  warlike  by  nature,  and  when  he 
advised  having  a  gun  handy  I  knew  the  situation  to 
be  critical. 

We  took  down  a  panel  of  fence  without  inter- 
ruption or  sign  of  life  at  the  house,  not  more  than 
fifty  yards  away;  Frosty  whispered  that  they  were 
probably  at  supper,  and  that  it  was  our  best  time.  I 
was  foolish  enough  to  regret  going  by  without 
chance  of  a  word  with  Beryl,  great  as  was  my  haste. 
I  had  not  seen  her  since  that  day  Frosty  and  I  had 
ridden  into  their  picnic — though  I  made  efforts 
enough,  the  Lord  knows — and  I  was  not  at  all 
happy  over  my  many  failures. 

Whether  it  was  good  luck  or  bad,  I  saw  her  rise 
up  from  a  hammock  on  the  porch  as  we  went  by 
— for,  as  I  said  before,  King's  house  was  much 
closer  to  the  trail  than  was  decent;  I  could  have 
leaned  from  the  saddle  and  touched  her  with  my 
quirt. 

"Mr.  Carleton" — I  was  fool  enough  to  gloat  over 
her  instant  recognition,  in  the  dark  like  that — "what 
are  you  doing  here — at  this  hour  ?  Don't  you  know 

133 


The     Range     Dwellers 

the  risk?  And  your  promise "  She  spoke  in 

an  undertone,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  being  over- 
heard— which  I  don't  doubt  she  was. 

But  if  she  had  been  a  Delilah  she  couldn't  have 
betrayed  me  more  completely.  Frosty  motioned  im- 
peratively for  me  to  go  on,  but  I  had  pulled  up  at 
her  first  word,  and  there  I  stood,  waiting  for  her 
to  finish,  that  I  might  explain  that  I  had  not  lightly 
broken  my  promise;  that  I  was  compelled  to  cut  off 
that  extra  sixty  miles  which  would  have  made  me, 
perhaps,  too  late.  But  I  didn't  tell  her  anything; 
there  wasn't  time.  Frosty,  waiting  disapprovingly 
a  length  ahead,  looked  back  and  beckoned  again  in- 
sistently. At  the  same  instant  a  door  behind  the 
girl  opened  with  a  jerk,  and  King  himself  bulked 
large  and  angry  in  the  lamplight.  Beryl  shrank 
backward  with  a  little  cry — and  I  knew  she  had  not 
meant  to  do  me  a  hurt. 

"Come  on,  you  fool!"  cried  Frosty,  and  struck 
his  horse  savagely.  I  jabbed  in  my  spurs,  and  Shy- 
lock  leaped  his  length  and  fled  down  that  familiar 
trail  to  the  "gantlet,"  as  I  had  always  called  it 

134 


mentally  after  that  second  passing.  But  King,  be- 
hind us,  fired  three  shots  quickly,  one  after  another 
— and,  as  the  bullets  sang  past,  I  knew  them  for  a 
signal. 

A  dozen  men,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  swarmed  out 
from  divers  places  to  dispute  our  passing,  and  shots 
were  being  fired  in  the  dark,  their  starting-point 
betrayed  by  vicious  little  spurts  of  flame.  Shylock 
winced  cruelly,  as  we  whipped  around  the  first 
shed,  and  I  called  out  sharply  to  Frosty,  still  a 
length  ahead.  He  turned  just  as  my  horse  went 
down  to  his  knees. 

I  jerked  my  feet  from  the  stirrups  and  landed 
free  and  upright,  which  was  a  blessing.  And  it  was 
then  that  I  swung  morally  far  back  to  the  primitive, 
and  wanted  to  kill,  and  kill,  with  never  a  thought 
for  parley  or  retreat.  Frosty,  like  the  stanch  old 
pal  he  was,  pulled  up  and  came  back  to  me,  though 
the  bullets  were  flying  fast  and  thick — and  not  wide 
enough  for  derision  on  our  part. 

"Jump  up  behind,"  he  commanded,  shooting  as 
he  spoke.  "We'll  get  out  of  this  damned  trap." 

135 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  had  my  doubts,  and  fired  away  without  paying 
him  much  attention.  I  wanted,  more  than  any- 
thing, to  get  the  man  who  had  shot  down  Shylock. 
That  isn't  a  pretty  confession,  but  it  has  the  vir- 
tue of  being  the  truth.  So,  while  Frosty  fired  at 
the  spurts  of  red  and  cursed  me  for  stopping  there, 
I  crouched  behind  my  dead  horse  and  fought  back 
with  evil  in  my  heart  and  a  mighty  poor  aim. 

Then,  just  as  the  first  excitement  was  hardening 
into  deliberate  malevolence,  came  a  clatter  from 
beyond  the  house,  and  a  chorus  of  familiar  yells 
and  the  spiteful  snapping  of  pistols.  It  was  our 
boys — thirty  of  the  biggest-hearted,  bravest  fellows 
that  ever  wore  spurs,  and,  as  they  came  thunder- 
ing down  to  us,  I  could  make  out  the  bent,  wiry  fig- 
ure of  old  Perry  Potter  in  the  lead,  yelling  and 
shooting  wickeder  than  any  one  else  in  the  crowd. 

"Ellis!"  he  shouted,  and  I  lifted  up  my  voice 
and  let  him  know  that,  like  Webster,  "I  still  lived." 
They  came  on  with  a  rush  that  the  King  faction 
could  not  stay,  to  where  I  was  ambushed  between 

136 


The     Range     Dwellers 

the  solid  walls  of  two  sheds,  with  Shylock's  bulk 
before  me  and  Frosty  swearing  at  my  back. 

"Horse  hit?"  snapped  Perry  Potter  breathlessly. 
"I  knowed  it.  Just  like  yuh.  Get  onto  this'n  uh 
mine — he's  the  best  in  the  bunch — and  light  out — 
if  yuh  still  want  t'  catch  that  train." 

I  came  back  from  the  primitive  with  a  rush.  I 
no  longer  wanted  to  kill  and  kill.  Dad  was  lying 
"critically  ill"  in  Frisco — and  Frisco  was  a  long 
way  off!  The  miles  between  bulked  big  and  black 
before  me,  so  that  I  shivered  and  forgot  my  quar- 
rel with  King.  I  must  catch  that  train. 

I  went  with  one  leap  up  into  the  saddle  as  Perry 
Potter  slid  down,  thought  vaguely  that  I  never 
could  ride  with  the  stirrups  so  short,  but  that  there 
was  not  time  to  lengthen  them ;  took  my  feet  peev- 
ishly out  of  them  altogether,  and  dashed  down 
that  winding  way  between  King's  sheds  and  corrals, 
while  the  Ragged  H  boys  kept  King's  men  at  bay, 
and  the  unmusical  medley  of  shots  and  yells  fol- 
lowed us  far  in  the  darkness  of  the  pass.  At  the 
last  fence,  where  we  perforce  drew  rein  to  make 

137 


The     Range     Dwellers 

a  free  passage  for  our  horses,  I  looked  back,  like 
one  Mrs.  Lot.  A  red  glare  lit  the  whole  sky  be- 
hind us  with  starry  sparks,  shooting  up  higher  into 
the  low-hanging  crimson  smoke-clouds.  I  stared, 
uncomprehending  for  a  moment;  then  the  thought 
of  her  stabbed  through  my  brain,  and  I  felt  a  sud- 
den horror.  "And  Beryl's  back  among  those 
devils !"  I  cried  aloud,  as  I  pulled  my  horse  around. 

"Beryl" — Frosty  laid  peculiar  stress  upon  the 
name  I  had  let  slip — "isn't  likely  to  be  down  among 
the  sheds,  where  that  fire  is.  Our  boys  are  collect- 
ing damages  for  Shylock,  I  guess;  hope  they  make 
a  good  job  of  it." 

I  felt  silly  enough  just  then  to  quarrel  with  my 
grandmother ;  I  hate  giving  a  man  cause  for  think- 
ing me  a  love-sick  lobster,  as  I'd  no  doubt  Frosty 
thought  me.  I  led  my  horse  over  the  wires  he  had 
let  down,  and  we  went  on  without  stopping  to  put 
them  back  on  the  posts.  It  was  some  time  before  I 
spoke  again,  and,  when  I  did,  the  subject  was  quite 
different;  I  was  mourning  because  I  hadn't  the 
Yellow  Peril  to  eat  up  the  miles  with. 

138 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"What  good  would  that  do  yuh?"  Frosty  asked, 
with  a  composure  I  could  only  call  unfeeling.  "Yuh 
couldn't  get  a  train,  anyway,  before  the  one  yuh  will 
get ;  motors  are  all  right,  in  their  place — but  a  horse 
isn't  to  be  despised,  either.  I'd  rather  be  stranded 
with  a  tired  horse  than  a  broken-down  motor." 

I  did  not  agree  with  him,  partly  because  I  was 
not  at  all  pleased  with  my  present  mount,  and 
partly  because  I  was  not  in  amiable  mood;  so  we 
galloped  along  in  sulky  silence,  while  a  washed-out 
moon  sidled  over  our  heads  and  dodged  behind 
cloud-banks  quite  as  if  she  were  ashamed  to  be 
seen.  The  coyotes  got  to  yapping  out  somewhere 
in  the  dark,  and,  as  we  came  among  the  breaks  that 
border  the  Missouri,  a  gray  wolf  howled  close  at 
hand. 

Perry  Potter's  horse,  that  had  shown  unmista- 
kable symptoms  of  disgust  at  the  endless  gallop  he 
had  been  called  upon  to  maintain,  shied  sharply 
away  from  the  sound,  stumbled  from  leg-weariness, 
and  fell  heavily;  for  the  second  time  that  night  I 
had  need  to  show  my  dexterity — but,  in  this  case, 

139 


The     Range     Dwellers 

with  Perry  Potter's  stirrups  swinging  somewhere 
in  the  vicinity  of  my  knees,  the  danger  of  getting 
caught  was  not  so  great.  I  stood  there  in  the  dark 
loneliness  of  the  silent  hills  and  the  howling  wolf, 
and  looked  down  at  the  brute  with  little  pity  and  a 
good  deal  of  resentment.  I  applied  my  toe  tenta- 
tively to  his  ribs,  and  he  just  grunted.  Frosty  got 
down  and  led  Spikes  closer,  and  together  we  sur- 
veyed the  heavily  breathing,  gray  bulk  in  the  sand 
at  our  feet. 

"If  he  was  the  Yellow  Peril,  instead  of  one  of 
your  much-vaunted  steeds,"  I  remarked  tartly,  "I 
could  go  at  him  with  a  wrench  and  have  him  in 

working  order  again  in  five  minutes;  as  it  is " 

I  felt  that  the  sentence  was  stronger  uncompleted. 

"As  it  is,"  finished  Frosty  calmly,  "you'll  just 
step  up  on  Spikes  and  go  on  to  Pochette's.  It's 
only  about  ten  miles,  now;  Spikes  is  good  for  it, 
if  you  ease  him  on  the  hills  now  and  then.  He  isn't 
the  Yellow  Peril,  maybe,  but  he's  a  good  little 
horse,  and  he'll  sure  take  yuh  through  the  best  he 
knows." 

140 


I  don't  know  why,  but  a  lump  came  up  in  my 
throat  at  the  tone  of  him.  I  put  out  my  hand  and 
laid  it  on  Spikes'  wet,  sweat-roughened  neck.  "Yes, 
he's  a  good  little  horse,  and  I  beg  his  pardon  for 
what  I  said,"  I  owned,  still  with  the  ache  just  back 
of  my  palate.  "But  he  can't  carry  us  both,  Frosty ; 
I'll  just  have  to  tinker  up  this  old  skate,  and  make 
him  go  on." 

"Yuh  can't  do  it;  he's  reached  his  limit.  Yuh 
can't  expect  a  common  cayuse  like  him  to  do  more 
than  eighty  miles  in  one  shift — at  the  gait  we've 
been  traveling.  I'm  surprised  he's  held  out  so 
long.  Yuh  take  Spikes  and  go  on;  I'll  walk  in. 
Yuh  know  the  way  from  here,  and  I  can't  help  yuh 
out  any  more  than  to  let  yuh  have  Spikes.  Go  on — 
it's  breaking  day,  and  yuh  haven't  got  any  too  much 
time  to  waste." 

I  looked  at  him,  at  Spikes  standing  wearily  on 
three  legs  but  with  his  ears  perked  gamily  ahead, 
and  down  at  the  gray,  worn-out  horse  of  Perry 
Potter's.  They  have  done  what  they  could — and 
not  one  seemed  to  regret  the  service.  I  felt,  at 

141 


The     Range     Dwellers 

that  moment,  mighty  small  and  unworthy,  and 
tempted  to  reject  the  offer  of  the  last  ounce  of  en- 
durance from  either — for  which  I  was  not  as  de- 
serving as  I  should  have  liked  to  be. 

"You  worked  all  day,  and  you've  ridden  all 
night,  and  gone  without  a  mouthful  of  supper  for 
me,"  I  protested  hotly.  "And  now  you  want  to 
walk  ten  beastly  miles  of  sand  and  hills.  I 
won't " 

"Your  dad  cared  enough  to  send  for  you " 

he  began,  but  I  would  not  let  him  finish. 

"You're  right,  Frosty,"  and  I  wrung  his  hand. 
"You're  the  real  thing,  and  I'd  do  as  much  for  you, 
old  pal.  I'll  make  that  Frenchman  rub  Spikes 
down  for  an  hour,  or  I'll  kill  him  when  I  get 
back." 

"You  won't  come  back,"  said  Frosty  bruskly. 
"See  that  streak  uh  yellow,  over  there?  Get  a 
move  on,  if  yuh  don't  want  to  miss  that  train — but 
ease  Spikes  up  the  hills !" 

I  nodded,  pulled  my  hat  down  low  over  my  eyes, 
and  rode  away;  when  I  did  get  courage  to  glance 

142 


"  Frosty  still  stood  where  I  had  left  him,  looking  down 

at  the  gray  horse."  Page  143 


The     Range     Dwellers 

back,  Frosty  still  stood  where  I  had  left  him,  look- 
ing down  at  the  gray  horse. 

An  hour  after  sunrise  I  slipped  off  Spikes  and 
watched  them  lead  him  away  to  the  stable ;  he  stag- 
gered like  a  man  when  he  has  drunk  too  long  and 
deeply.  I  swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee,  mounted  a 
little  buckskin,  and  went  on,  with  Pochette's  assur- 
ance, "Don't  be  afraid  to  put  heem  through,"  ring- 
ing in  my  ears.  I  was  not  afraid  to  put  him 
through.  That  last  forty-eight  miles  I  rode  merci- 
lessly— for  the  demon  of  hurry  was  again  urging 
me  on.  At  ten  o'clock  I  rolled  stiffly  off  the  buck- 
skin at  the  Osage  station,  walked  more  stiffly  into 
the  office,  and  asked  for  a  message.  The  operator 
handed  me  two,  and  looked  at  me  with  much  cu- 
riosity— but  I  suppose  I  was  a  sight.  The  first  was 
to  tell  me  that  a  special  would  be  ready  at  ten- 
thirty,  and  that  the  road  would  be  cleared  for  it. 
I  had  not  thought  about  a  special — Osage  being  so 
far  from  Frisco;  but  Crawford  was  a  wonder,  and 
he  had  a  long  arm.  My  respect  for  Crawford  in- 
creased amazingly  as  I  read  that  message,  and  I 

143 


The     Range     Dwellers 

began  at  once  to  bully  the  agent  because  the  special 
was  not  ready  at  that  minute  to  start.  The  second 
message  was  a  laconic  statement  that  dad  was  still 
alive;  I  folded  it  hurriedly  and  put  it  out  of  sight, 
for  somehow  it  seemed  to  say  a  good  many  nasty 
things  between  the  words. 

I  wired  Crawford  that  I  was  ready  to  start  and 
waiting  for  the  special,  and  then  I  fumed  and  con- 
tinued my  bullying  of  the  man  in  the  office ;  he  was 
not  to  blame  for  anything,  of  course,  but  it  was 
a  tremendous  relief  to  take  it  out  of  somebody  just 
then. 

The  special  came,  on  time  to  a  second,  and  I 
swung  on  and  told  the  conductor  to  put  her  through 
for  all  she  was  worth — but  he  had  already  got  his 
instructions  as  to  speed,  I  fancy;  we  ripped  down 
the  track  a  mile  a  minute — and  it  wasn't  long  till 
we  bettered  that  more  than  I'd  have  believed  pos- 
sible. The  superintendent's  car  had  been  given  over 
to  me,  I  learned  from  the  porter,  and  would  carry 
me  to  Ogden,  where  dad's  own  car,  the  Shasta, 
would  meet  me.  There,  too,  I  saw  the  hand  of 

144 


The     Range     Dwellers 

Crawford;  it  was  not  like  dad  or  him  to  borrow 
anything  unless  the  necessity  was  absolute. 

I  hope  I  may  never  be  compelled  to  take  another 
such  journey.  Not  that  I  was  nervous  at  the  kill- 
ing pace  we  went — and  it  was  certainly  hair-raising, 
in  places;  but  every  curve  that  we  whipped  around 
on  two  wheels — approximately — told  me  that  dad 
was  in  desperate  case  indeed,  and  that  Crawford 
was  oiling  every  joint  with  gold  to  get  me  there 
in  time.  At  every  division  the  crack  engine  of  the 
shops  was  coupled  on  in  seconds,  rather  than  min- 
utes, bellowed  its  challenge  to  all  previous  rec- 
ords, and  scuttled  away  to  the  west;  a  new  con- 
ductor swung  up  the  steps  and  answered  patiently 
the  questions  I  hurled  at  him,  and  courteously 
passed  over  the  invectives  when  I  felt  that  we  were 
crawling  at  a  snail's  pace  and  wanted  him  to  hurry 
a  bit. 

At  Ogden  I  hustled  into  the  Shasta  and  felt  a 
grain  of  comfort  in  its  familiar  atmosphere,  and  a 
sense  of  companionship  in  the  solemn  face  of  Crom- 
well Jones,  our  porter.  I  had  taken  many  a  jaunt 

145 


The     Range     Dwellers 

in  the  old  car,  with  Crom,  and  Rankin,  and  Tony, 
the  best  cook  that  ever  fed  a  hungry  man,  and  it 
seemed  like  coming  home  just  to  throw  myself  into 
my  pet  chair  again,  with  Crom  to  fetch  me  some- 
thing cold  and  fizzy. 

From  him  I  learned  that  it  was  pneumonia,  and 
that  if  I  got  there  in  time  it  would  be  considered  a 
miracle  of  speed  and  a  triumph  of  faultless  rail- 
road system.  If  I  had  been  tempted  to  take  my 
ease  and  to  sleep  a  bit,  that  settled  it  for  me.  The 
Shasta  had  no  more  power  to  lull  my  fears  or  to 
minister  to  my  comfort.  I  refused  to  be  satisfied 
with  less  than  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  an  hour, 
and  I  was  sore  at  the  whole  outfit  because  they  re- 
fused to  accommodate  me. 

Still,  we  got  over  the  ground  at  such  a  clip  that 
on  the  third  day,  with  screech  of  whistle  and  clang 
of  bell,  we  slowed  at  Oakland  pier,  where  a  crowd 
was  cheering  like  the  end  of  a  race — which  it  was 
— and  kodak  fiends  were  underfoot  as  if  I'd  been 
somebody. 

A  motor-boat  was  waiting,  and  the  race  went  on 
146 


The     Range     Dwellers 

across  the  bay,  where  Crawford  met  me  with  the 
Yellow  Peril  at  the  ferry  depot.  I  was  told  that 
I  was  in  time,  and  when  I  got  my  hand  on  the 
wheel,  and  turned  the  Peril  loose,  it  seemed,  for 
the  first  time  since  leaving  home,  that  fate  was 
standing  back  and  letting  me  run  things. 

Policemen  waved  their  arms  and  said  things  at 
the  way  we  went  up  Market  Street,  but  I  only 
turned  it  on  a  bit  more  and  tried  not  to  run  over 
any  humans;  a  dog  got  it,  though,  just  as  we 
whipped  into  Sacramento  Street.  I  remember  wish- 
ing that  Frosty  was  with  me,  to  be  convinced  that 
motors  aren't  so  bad  after  all. 

It  was  good  to  come  tearing  up  the  hill  with 
the  horn  bellowing  for  a  clear  track,  and  to  slow 
down  just  enough  to  make  the  turn  between  our 
bronze  mastiffs,  and  skid  up  the  drive,  stopping  at 
just  the  right  instant  to  avoid  going  clear  through 
the  stable  and  trespassing  upon  our  neighbor's 
flower-beds.  It  was  good — but  I  don't  believe 
Crawford  appreciated  the  fact;  imperturbable  as  he 
was,  I  fancied  that  he  looked  relieved  when  his  feet 


The     Range     Dwellers 

touched  the  gravel.  I  was  human  enough  to  enjoy 
scaring  Crawford  a  bit,  and  even  regretted  that  I 
had  not  shaved  closer  to  a  collision. 

Then  I  was  up-stairs,  in  an  atmosphere  of  drugs 
and  trained  nurses  and  funeral  quiet,  and  knew  for 
a  certainty  that  I  was  still  in  time,  and  that  dad 
knew  me  and  was  glad  to  have  me  there.  I  had 
never  seen  dad  in  bed  before,  and  all  my  life  he  had 
been  associated  in  my  mind  with  calm  self-posses- 
sion and  power  and  perfect  grooming.  To  see  him 
lying  there  like  that,  so  white  and  weak  and  so  ut- 
terly helpless,  gave  me  a  shock  that  I  was  quite  un- 
prepared for.  I  came  mighty  near  acting  like  a 
woman  with  hysterics — and,  coming  as  it  did  right 
after  that  run  in  the  Peril,  I  gave  Crawford  some- 
thing of  a  shock,  too,  I  think.  I  know  he  got  me 
by  the  shoulders  and  hustled  me  out  of  the  room, 
and  he  was  looking  pretty  shaky  himself;  and  if 
his  eyes  weren't  watery,  then  I  saw  exceedingly 
crooked. 

A  doctor  came  and  made  me  swallow  something, 
and  told  me  that  there  was  a  chance  for  dad,  after 

148 


The     Range     Dwellers 

all,  though  they  had  not  thought  so  at  first.  Then 
he  sent  me  off  to  bed,  and  Rankin  appeared  from 
somewhere,  with  his  abominably  righteous  air,  and 
I  just  escaped  making  another  fool  scene.  But  Ran- 
kin had  the  sense  to  take  me  in  hand  just  as  he 
used  to  do  when  I'd  been  having  no  end  of  a  time 
with  the  boys,  and  so  got  me  to  bed.  The  stuff  the 
doctor  made  me  swallow  did  the  rest,  and  I  was 
dead  to  the  world  in  ten  minutes. 


149 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Old  Life— and  the  New. 

Now  that  I  was  there,  I  was  no  good  to  anybody. 
The  nurse  wouldn't  let  me  put  my  nose  inside  dad's 
door  for  a  week,  and  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  go  out 
much  while  he  was  so  sick.  Rankin  was  about  all 
the  recreation  I  had,  and  he  palled  after  the  first 
day  or  two.  I  told  him  things  about  Montana  that 
made  him  look  painful  because  he  hardly  liked  to 
call  me  a  liar  to  my  face;  and  the  funny  part  was 
that  I  was  telling  him  the  truth. 

Then  dad  got  well  enough  so  the  nurse  had  no 
excuse  for  keeping  me  out,  and  I  spent  a  lot  of 
time  sitting  beside  his  bed  and  answering  questions. 
By  the  time  he  was  sitting  up,  peevish  at  the  re- 
straint of  weakness  and  doctor's  orders,  we  began 
to  get  really  acquainted  and  to  be  able  to  talk  to- 
gether without  a  burdensome  realization  that  we 
were  father  and  son — and  a  mighty  poor  excuse  for 

150 


The     Range     Dwellers 

the  son.  Dad  wasn't  such  bad  company,  I  discov- 
ered. Before,  he  had  been  mostly  the  man  that  han- 
dled the  carving-knife  when  I  dined  at  home,  and 
that  wrote  checks  and  dictated  letters  to  Crawford 
in  the  privacy  of  his  own  den — he  called  it  his 
study. 

Now  I  found  that  he  could  tell  a  story  that  had 
some  point  to  it,  and  could  laugh  at  yours,  in  his 
dry  way,  whether  it  had  any  point  or  not.  I  even 
got  to  telling  him  some  of  the  scrapes  I  had  got 
into,  and  about  Perry  Potter;  dad  liked  to  hear 
about  Perry  Potter.  The  beauty  of  it  was,  he  could 
understand  everything;  he  had  lived  there  himself 
long  enough  to  get  the  range  view-point.  I  hate 
telling  a  yarn  and  then  going  back  over  it  explain- 
ing all  the  fine  points. 

I  remember  one  night  when  the  fog  was  rolling 
in  from  the  ocean  till  you  could  hardly  see  the 
street-lamps  across  the  way,  we  sat  by  the  fire — 
dad  was  always  great  for  big,  wood  fires — and 
smoked;  and  somehow  I  got  strung  out  and  told 
him  about  that  Kenmore  dance,  and  how  the  boys 


rigged  up  in  my  clothes  and  went.  Dad  laughed 
harder  than  I'd  ever  heard  him  before;  you  see, 
he  knew  the  range,  and  the  picture  rose  up  before 
him  all  complete.  I  told  that  same  yarn  afterward 
to  Barney  MacTague,  and  there  was  nothing  to  it, 
so  far  as  he  was  concerned.  He  said:  "Lord! 
they  must  have  been  an  out-at-heels  lot  not  to  have 
any  clothes  of  their  own."  Now,  what  do  you 
think  of  that? 

Well,  I  went  on  from  that  and  told  dad  about  my 
flying  trips  through  King's  Highway,  too — with 
the  girl  left  out.  Dad  matched  his  finger-tips  to- 
gether while  I  was  telling  it,  and  afterward  he 
didn't  say  much;  only:  "I  knew  you'd  play  the 
fool  somehow,  if  you  stayed  long  enough."  He 
didn't  explain,  however,  just  what  particular  brand 
of  fool  I  had  been,  or  what  he  thought  of  old  King, 
though  I  hinted  pretty  strong.  Dad  has  got  a 
smooth  way  of  parrying  anything  he  doesn't  want 
to  answer  straight  out,  and  it  takes  a  fellow  with 
more  nerve  than  I've  got  to  corner  him  and  just 
make  him  give  up  an  opinion  if  he  doesn't  want 

152 


The     Range     Dwellers 

to.  So  I  didn't  find  out  a  thing  about  that  old 
row,  or  how  it  started — more  than  what  I'd  learned 
at  the  Ragged  H,  that  is. 

Frosty  had  written  me,  a  week  or  two  after  I 
left,  that  our  fellows  had  really  burned  King's 
sheds,  and  that  Perry  Potter  had  a  bullet  just 
scrape  the  hair  off  the  top  of  his  head,  where  he 
hadn't  any  to  spare.  It  made  him  so  mad,  Frosty 
said,  that  he  wanted  to  go  back  and  kill,  slay,  and 
slaughter — that  is  Frosty's  way  of  putting  it.  An- 
other one  of  the  boys  had  been  hit  in  the  arm,  but 
it  was  only  a  flesh  wound  and  nothing  serious.  So 
far  as  they  could  find  out,  King's  men  had  got  off 
without  a  scratch,  Frosty  said;  which  was  another 
great  sorrow  to  Perry  Potter,  who  went  around 
saying  pointed  things  about  poor  markmanship  and 
fellows  who  couldn't  hit  a  barn  if  they  were  locked 
inside — that  kept  the  boys  stirred  up  and  undecided 
whether  to  feel  insulted  or  to  take  it  as  a  joke. 
I  wished  that  I  was  back  there — until  I  read,  down 
at  the  bottom  of  the  last  page,  that  Beryl  King  and 
her  Aunt  Lodema  had  gone  back  to  the  East. 

'53 


The     Range     Dwellers 

The  next  day  I  learned  the  same  thing  from  an- 
other source.  Edith  Loroman  had  kept  her  prom- 
ise— as  I  remembered  her,  she  wasn't  great  at 
that  sort  of  thing,  either — and  sent  me  a  picture 
of  White  Divide  just  before  I  left  the  ranch.  Some- 
how, after  that,  we  drifted  into  letter- writing.  I 
wrote  to  thank  her  for  the  picture,  and  she  wrote 
back  to  say  "don't  mention  it" — in  effect,  at  least, 
though  it  took  three  full  pages  to  get  that  effect — 
and  asked  some  questions  about  the  ranch,  and  the 
boys,  and  Frosty  Miller.  I  had  to  answer  that  let- 
ter and  the  questions — and  that's  how  it  began. 
It  was  a  good  deal  of  a  nuisance,  for  I  never  did 
take  much  to  pen  work,  and  my  conscience  was 
hurting  me  half  the  time  over  delayed  answers; 
Edith  was  always  prompt ;  she  liked  to  write  letters 
better  than  I  did,  evidently. 

But  when  she  wrote,  the  day  after  I  got  that  let- 
ter from  Frosty,  and  said  that  Beryl  and  Aunt  Lo- 
dema  had  just  returned  and  were  going  to  spend 
the  winter  in  New  York  and  join  the  Giddy  Whirl, 
I  will  own  that  I  was  a  much  better — that  is,  prompt 

154 


The     Range     Dwellers 

— correspondent.  Edith  is  that  kind  of  girl  who 
can't  write  two  pages  without  mentioning  every 
one  in  her  set;  like  those  Local  Items  from  little 
country  towns;  a  paragraph  for  everybody. 

So,  having  a  strange  and  unwholesome  hanker- 
ing to  hear  all  I  could  about  Beryl,  I  encouraged 
Edith  to  write  long  and  often  by  setting  her  an 
example.  I  didn't  consider  that  I  was  taking  a 
mean  advantage  of  her,  either,  for  she's  the  kind 
of  girl  who  boasts  about  the  number  of  her  pro- 
posals and  correspondents.  I  knew  she'd  cut  a 
notch  for  me  on  the  stick  where  she  counted  her 
victims,  but  it  was  worth  the  price,  and  I'm  posi- 
tive Edith  didn't  mind. 

The  only  drawback  was  the  disgusting  frequency 
with  which  the  words  "Beryl  and  Terence  Weaver" 
appeared;  that  did  rather  get  on  my  nerves,  and 
I  did  ask  Edith  once  if  Terence  Weaver  was  the 
only  man  in  New  York.  In  fact,  I  was  at  one  time 
on  the  point  of  going  to  New  York  myself  and 
taking  it  out  of  Mr.  Terence  Weaver.  I  just  ached 
to  give  him  a  run  for  his  money.  But  when  I  hinted 

155 


The     Range     Dwellers 

it — going  to  New  York,  I  mean — dad  looked  rather 
hurt. 

"I  had  expected  you'd  stay  at  home  until  after 
the  holidays,  at  least,"  he  remarked.  "I'm  old- 
fashioned  enough  to  feel  that  a  family  should  be 
together  Christmas  week,  if  at  no  other  time.  It 
doesn't  necessarily  follow  that  because  there  are 

only  two  left "  Dad  dropped  his  glasses  just 

then,  and  didn't  finish  the  sentence.  He  didn't  need 
to.  I'd  have  stayed,  then,  no  matter  what  string 
was  pulling  me  to  New  York.  It's  so  seldom,  you 
see,  that  dad  lowers  his  guard  and  lets  you  glimpse 
the  real  feeling  there  is  in  him.  I  felt  such  a  cur 
for  even  wanting  to  leave  him,  that  I  stayed  in  that 
evening*  instead  of  going  down  to  the  Olympic, 
where  was  to  be  a  sort  of  impromptu  boxing-match 
between  a  couple  of  our  swiftest  amateurs. 

Talking  to  dad  was  virtuous,  but  unexciting.  I 
remember  we  discussed  the  profit,  loss,  and  risk 
of  cattle-raising  in  Montana,  till  bedtime  came  for 
dad.  Then  I  went  up  and  roasted  Rankin  for  look- 
ing so  damned  astonished  at  my  wanting  to  go  to 

156 


The     Range     Dwellers 

bed  at  ten-thirty.  Rankin  is  unbearably  righteous- 
looking,  at  times.  I  used  often  to  wish  he'd  do 
something  wicked,  just  to  take  that  moral  look  off 
him ;  but  the  pedestal  of  his  solemn  virtue  was  too 
high  for  mere  human  temptations.  So  I  had  to 
content  myself  with  shying  a  shoe  his  way  and 
asking  him  what  there  was  funny  about  me. 

After  dad  got  well  enough  to  go  back  to  watch- 
ing his  millions  grow,  and  didn't  seem  to  need  me 
to  keep  him  cheered  up,  life  in  our  house  dropped 
back  to  its  old  level — which  means  that  I  saw  dad 
once  a  day,  maybe.  He  gave  me  back  my  allowance 
and  took  to  paying  my  bills  again,  and  I  was  free  to 
get  into  the  old  pace — which  I  will  confess  wasn't 
slow.  The  Montana  incident  seemed  closed  for 
good,  and  only  Frosty's  letters  and  a  rather  per- 
sistent memory  was  left  of  it. 

In  a  month  I  had  to  acknowledge  two  emotions  I 
hadn't  counted  on :  surprise  and  disgust.  I  couldn't 
hit  the  old  pace.  Somehow,  things  were  different — 
or  I  was  different.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  because 

157 


The     Range     Dwellers 

Barney  MacTague  was  away  cruising  around  the 
Hawaii  Islands,  somewhere,  with  a  party. 

I  came  near  having  the  Molly  Stark  put  in  com- 
mission and  going  after  him ;  but  dad  wouldn't  hear 
of  that,  and  told  me  I'd  better  keep  on  dry  land 
'during  the  stormy  months.  So  I  gave  in,  for  I 
hadn't  the  heart  to  go  dead  against  his  wishes,  as 
I  used  to  do.  Besides,  he'd  have  had  to  put  up  the 
coin,  which  he  refused  to  do. 

So  I  moped  around  the  clubs,  backed  the  light- 
weight champion  of  the  hour  for  a  big  match,  put 
up  a  pile  of  money  on  him,  and  saw  it  fade  away 
and  take  with  it  my  trust  in  champions.  Dad  was 
good  about  it,  and  put  up  what  I'd  gone  over  my 
allowance  without  a  whimper.  Then  I  chased 
around  the  country  in  the  Yellow  Peril  and  won 
three  races  down  at  Los  Angeles,  touring  down  and 
back  with  a  fellow  who  had  slathers  of  money,  wore 
blue  ties,  and  talked  through  his  nose.  I  leave  my 
enjoyment  of  the  trip  to  your  imagination. 

When  I  got  back,  I  had  the  Yellow  Peril  re- 
fitted and  the  tonneau  put  back  on,  and  went  in 

158 


The     Range     Dwellers 

for  society.  I  think  that  spell  lasted  as  long  as 
three  weeks;  I  quit  immensely  popular  with  a  cer- 
tain bunch  of  widows  and  the  like,  and  with  a  sys- 
tem so  permeated  with  tea  and  bridge  that  it  took  a 
stiff  course  of  high-balls  and  poker  to  take  the  taste 
out  of  my  mouth. 

I  think  it  was  in  March  that  Barney  came  back ; 
but  he  came  back  an  engaged  young  man,  so  that 
in  less  than  a  week  Barney  began  to  pall.  His 
fiancee  had  got  him  to  swear  off  on  poker  and  prize- 
fighting and  smokers  and  everything.  And  I  leave 
it  to  you  if  there  would  be  much  left  of  a  fellow  like 
Barney.  All  he  was  free  to  do— or  wanted  to  do 
— was  sit  in  a  retired  corner  of  the  club  with 
Shasta  water  and  cigarettes  for  refreshments,  and 
talk  about  Her,  and  how  It  had  happened,  and  the 
pangs  of  uncertainty  that  shot  through  his  heart 
till  he  knew  for  sure.  Barney's  full  as  tall  as  I 
am,  and  he  weighs  twenty-five  pounds  more ;  and  to 
hear  a  great,  hulking  brute  like  that  talking  slush 
was  enough  to  make  a  man  forswear  love  in  all 
forms  forever.  He'd  show  me  her  picture  regular, 

159 


The     Range     Dwellers 

every  time  I  met  him,  and  expect  me  to  hand  out 
a  jolly.  She  wasn't  so  much,  either.  Her  nose 
was  crooked,  and  she  didn't  appear  to  have  any  eye- 
brows to  speak  of.  I'd  like  to  have  him  see — well, 

a  certain  young  woman  with  eyelashes  and 

Oh,  well,  it  wasn't  Barney's  fault  that  he'd  never 
seen  a  real  beauty,  and  so  was  satisfied  with  his 
particular  Her.  I  began  to  shy  at  Barney,  and 
avoided  him  as  systematically  as  if  I  owed  him 
money;  which  I  didn't  I  just  couldn't  stand  for  so 
much  monologue  with  a  girl  with  no  eyebrows  and 
a  crooked  nose  for  the  never-failing  subject. 

My  next  unaccountable  notion  was  manifested  in 
an  unreasoning  dislike  of  Rankin.  He  got  to  going 
to  some  mission-meetings,  somewhere  down  near 
the  Barbary  Coast;  I  got  out  of  him  that  much, 
and  that  he  sometimes  led  the  meetings.  Rankin 
can't  lie — or  won't — so  he  said  right  out  that  he 
was  doing  what  little  he  could  to  save  precious 
souls.  That  part  was  all  right,  of  course;  but  he 
was  so  beastly  solemn  and  sanctimonious  that  he 
came  near  sending  my  soul — maybe  it  isn't  as  pre- 
160 


The     Range     Dwellers 

cious  as  those  he  was  laboring  with — straight  to 
the  bad  place. 

Every  morning  when  he  appeared  like  the  ghost 
of  a  Puritan  ancestor's  remorse  at  my  bedside,  I 
swore  I'd  send  him  off  before  night.  To  look  at 
him  you'd  think  I  had  done  a  murder  and  he  was 
an  eye-witness  to  the  deed.  Still,  it's  pretty  raw 
to  send  a  man  off  just  because  he's  the  embodi- 
ment of  punctiliousness  and  looks  virtuously  grieved 
for  your  sins.  In  his  general  demeanor,  I  admit 
that  Rankin  was  quite  irreproachable — and  that's 
why  I  hated  him  so. 

Besides,  Montana  had  spoiled  me  for  wanting  to 
be  dressed  like  a  baby,  and  I  would  much  rather  get 
my  own  hat  and  stick;  I  never  had  the  chance, 
though.  I'd  turn  .and  find  him  just  back  of  my 
elbow,  with  the  things  in  his  hands  and  that  damned 
righteous  look  on  his  face,  and  generally  I'd  swear 
he  did  get  on  my  nerves  so. 

I'm  afraid  I  ruined  him  for  a  good  servant,  and 
taught  him  habits  of  idleness  he'll  never  outgrow ; 
for  every  morning  I'd  send  him  below — I  won't 

161 


The     Range     Dwellers 

state  the  exact  destination,  but  I  have  reasons  for 
thinking  he  never  got  farther  than  the  servants' 
hall — with  strict — and  for  the  most  part  profane — 
orders  not  to  show  his  face  again  unless  I  rang. 
Even  at  that,  I  always  found  him  waiting  up  for 
me  when  I  came  home.  Oh,  there  was  no  changing 
the  ways  of  Rankin. 

I  think  it  was  about  the  middle  of  May  when 
my  general  discontent  with  life  in  the  old  burgh 
took  a  virulent  form.  I'd  been  losing  a  lot  one  way 
and  another,  and  Barney  and  I  had  come  together 
literally  and  with  much  force  when  we  were  having 
a  spurt  with  our  cars  out  toward  Ingleside.  The 
Yellow  Peril  looked  pretty  sick  when  I  picked  my- 
self out  of  the  mess  and  found  I  wasn't  hurt  except 
in  my  feelings.  Barney's  car  only  had  the  lamps 
smashed,  and  as  he  had  run  into  me,  that  made 
me  sore.  We  said  things,  and  I  caught  a  street-car 
back  to  town.  Barney  drove  in,  about  as  hot  as 
I  was,  I  guess. 

So,  when  I  got  home  and  found  a  letter  from 
Frosty,  my  mind  was  open  for  something  new.  The 

162 


The     Range     Dwellers 

letter  was  short,  but  it  did  the  business  and  gave 
me  a  hunger  for  the  old  days  that  nothing  but  a 
hard  gallop  over  the  prairie-lands,  with  the  wind 
blowing  the  breath  out  of  my  nostrils,  could  satisfy. 
He  said  the  round-up  would  start  in  about  a  week. 
That  was  about  all,  but  I  got  up  and  did  some- 
thing I'd  never  done  before. 

I  took  the  letter  and  went  straight  down  to  dad's 
private  den  and  interrupted  him  when  he  was  going 
over  his  afternoon  letters  with  Crawford.  Dad 
was  very  particular  not  to  be  interrupted  at  such 
times ;  his  mail-hours  were  held  sacred,  and  nothing 
short  of  a  life-or-death  matter  would  have  taken 
me  in  there — in  any  normal  state  of  mind. 

Crawford  started  out  of  his  chair — if  you  knew 
Crawford  that  one  action  would  tell  you  a  whole  lot 
— and  dad  whirled  toward  me  and  asked  what  had 
happened.  I  think  they  both  expected  to  hear  that 
the  house  was  on  fire. 

"The  round-up  starts  next  week,  dad,"  I  blurted, 
and  then  stopped.  It  just  occurred  to  me  that  it 
might  not  sound  important  to  them. 

163 


The     Range     Dwellers 

Dad  matched  his  finger-tips  together.  "Since  I 
first  bought  a  bunch  of  cattle,"  he  drawled,  "the 
round-up  has  never  failed  to  start  some  time  during 
this  month.  Is  it  vitally  important  that  it  should 
not  start?" 

"I've  got  to  start  at  once,  or  I  can't  catch  it." 
I  fancied,  just  then,  that  I  detected  a  glimmer  of 
amusement  on  Crawford's  face.  I  wanted  to  hit 
him  with  something. 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  it  must  be  caught?" 
dad  wanted  to  know,  in  his  worst  tone,  which  is 
almost  diabolically  calm. 

"Yes,"  I  rapped  out,  growing  a  bit  riled,  "there 
is.  I  can't  stand  this  do-nothing  existence  any 
longer.  You  brought  me  up  to  it,  and  never  let  me 
know  anything  about  your  business,  or  how  to  help 
you  run  it " 

"It  never  occurred  to  me,"  drawled  dad,  "that  I 
needed  help  to  run  my  business." 

"And  last  spring  you  rose  up,  all  of  a  sudden, 
and  started  in  to  cure  me  of  being  a  drone.  The 
medicine  you  used  was  strong;  it  did  the  business 

164 


The     Range     Dwellers 

pretty  thoroughly.  You've  no  kick  coming  at  the 
result.  I'm  going  to  start  to-morrow." 

Dad  looked  at  me  till  I  began  to  feel  squirmy. 
I've  thought  since  that  he  wasn't  as  surprised  as 
I  imagined,  and  that,  on  the  whole,  he  was  pleased. 
But,  if  he  was,  he  was  mighty  careful  not  to  show 
it. 

"You  would  better  give  me  a  list  of  your  debts, 
then,"  he  said  laconically.  "I  shall  see  that  your 
allowance  goes  on  just  the  same;  you  may  want  to 
invest  in— er — cattle." 

"Thank  you,  dad,"  I  said,  and  turned  to  go. 

"And  I  wish  to  Heaven,"  he  called  after  me, 
"that  you'd  take  Rankin  along  and  turn  him  loose 
out  there.  He  might  do  to  herd  sheep.  I'm  sick 
of  that  hark-from-the-tombs  face  of  his.  I  made  a 
footman  of  him  while  you  were  gone  before,  rather 
than  turn  him  off;  but  I'm  damned  if  I  do  it  again." 

I  stopped  just  short  of  the  door  and  grinned  back 
at  him.  "Rankin,"  I  said,  "is  one  of  the  horrors 
I'm  trying  to  leave  behind,  dad." 

But  dad  had  gone  back  to  his  correspondence. 
165 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"In  regard  to  that  Clark,  Marsden,  and  Clark  af- 
fair, I  think,  Crawford,  it  would  be  well " 

I  closed  the  door  quietly  and  left  them.  It  was 
dad's  way,  and  I  laughed  a  little  to  myself  as  I  was 
going  back  to  my  room  to  round  up  Rankin  and  set 
him  to  packing.  I  meant  to  stand  over  him  with  a 
club  this  time,  if  necessary,  and  see  that  I  got  what 
I  wanted  packed. 

The  next  evening  I  started  again  for  Montana 
— and  I  didn't  go  in  dad's  private  car,  either.  Save 
for  the  fact  that  I  had  no  grievance  with  him,  and 
that  we  ate  dinner  alone  together  and  drank  a  bot- 
tle of  extra  dry  to  the  success  of  my  pilgrimage,  I 
went  much  as  I  had  gone  before:  humbly  and  un- 
heralded except  for  a  telegram  for  some  one  to  meet 
me  at  Osage. 

Rankin,  I  may  say,  did  not  go  with  me,  though 
I  did  as  dad  had  suggested  and  offered  to  take  him 
along  and  get  him  a  job  herding  sheep.  The  mem- 
ory of  Rankin's  pained  countenance  lingers  with 
me  yet,  and  cheers  me  in  many  a  dark  hour  when 
there's  nothing  else  to  laugh  over. 

1 66 


CHAPTER  X. 

/  Shake  Hands  with  Old  Man  King. 

For  the  second  time  in  my  irresponsible  career 
I  stood  on  the  station  platform  at  Osage  and 
watched  the  train  slide  off  to  the  East.  It's  a 
blamed  fool  who  never  learns  anything  by  experi- 
ence, and  I  never  have  accused  myself  of  being  a 
fool — except  at  odd  times — so  I  didn't  land  broke. 
I  had  money  to  pay  for  several  meals,  and  I  looked 
around  for  somebody  I  knew;  Frosty,  I  hoped. 

For  the  sodden  land  I  had  looked  upon  with  such 
disgust  when  first  I  had  seen  it,  the  range  lay 
dimpled  in  all  the  enticement  of  spring.  Where 
first  I  had  seen  dirty  snow-banks,  the  green  was 
bright  as  our  lawn  at  home.  The  hilltops  were 
lighter  in  shade,  and  the  jagged  line  of  hills  in  the 
far  distance  was  a  soft,  soft  blue,  just  stopping  short 
of  reddish-purple.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  human  that 
goes  wading  to  his  chin  in  lights  and  shades  and 

167 


The     Range     Dwellers 

dim  perspectives,  and  names  every  tone  he  can  think 
of — especially  mauve;  they  do  go  it  strong  on 
mauve — before  he's  through.  But  I  did  lift  my 
hat  to  that  dimply  green  reach  of  prairie,  and 
thanked  God  I  was  there. 

I  turned  toward  the  hill  that  hid  the  town,  and 
there  came  Frosty  driving  the  same  disreputable 
rig  that  had  taken  me  first  to  the  Bay  State.  I 
dropped  my  suit-case  and  gripped  his  hand  almost 
before  he  had  pulled  up  at  the  platform.  Lord !  but 
I  was  glad  to  see  that  thin,  brown  face  of  his. 

"Looks  like  we'd  got  to  be  afflicted  with  your 
presence  another  summer,"  he  grinned.  "I  hope 
yuh  ain't  going  to  claim  I  coaxed  yuh  back,  be- 
cause I  took  particular  pains  not  to.  And,  uh 
course,  the  boys  are  just  dreading  the  sight  of  yuh. 
Where's  your  war-bag,  darn  yuh  ?" 

How  was  that  for  a  greeting?  It  suited  me,  all 
right.  I  just  thumped  Frosty  on  the  back  and  called 
him  a  name  that  it  would  make  a  lady  faint  to 
hear,  and  we  laughed  like  a  couple  of  fools. 

I'm  not  on  oath,  perhaps,  but  still  I  feel  some- 
168 


The     Range     Dwellers 

how  bound  to  tell  all  the  truth,  and  not  to  pass 
myself  off  for  a  saint.  So  I  will  say  that  Frosty 
and  I  had  a  celebration,  that  night ;  an  Osage,  Mon- 
tana, celebration,  with  all  the  fixings.  Know  the 
brand — because  if  you  don't,  I'd  hang  before  I'd  tell 
just  how  many  shots  we  put  through  ceilings,  or 
how  we  rent  the  atmosphere  outside.  You  see,  I 
was  glad  to  get  back,  and  Frosty  was  glad  to  have 
me  back;  and  since  neither  of  us  are  the  fall-on- 
your-neck-and-put-a-ring-on-your-finger  kind,  we 
had  to  exuberate  some  other  way;  and,  as  Frosty 
would  put  it,  "We  sure  did." 

I  can't  say  we  felt  quite  so  exuberant  next  morn- 
ing, but  we  were  willing  to  take  our  medicine,  and 
started  for  the  ranch  all  serene.  I  won't  say  a  word 
about  mauves  and  faint  ambers  and  umbras,  but 
I  do  want  to  give  that  country  a  good  word,  as  it 
looked  that  morning  to  me.  It  was  great. 

There  are  plenty  of  places  can  put  it  all  over 
that  Osage  country  for  straight  scenery,  but  T 
never  saw  such  a  contented-looking  place  as  that 
big  prairie-land  was  that  morning.  I've  seen  it 

169 


The     Range     Dwellers 

with  the  tears  running  down  its  face,  and  pretty 
well  draggled  and  seedy;  but  when  we  started  out 
with  the  sun  shining  against  our  cheeks  and  the 
hills  looking  so  warm  and  lazy  and  the  hollows 
kind  of  smiling  to  themselves  over  something,  and 
the  prairie-dogs  gossiping  worse  than  a  ladies'  self- 
culture  meeting,  I  tell  you,  it  all  looked  good  to  me, 
and  I  told  Frosty  so. 

"I'd  rather  be  a  forty-dollar  puncher  in  this  man's 
land,"  I  enthused,  "than  a  lily-of-the-field  some- 
where in  civilization." 

"In  other  words,"  Frosty  retorted  sarcastically, 
"you  think  you  prefer  the  canned  vegetables  and 
contentment,  as  the  Bible  says,  to  corn-fed  beef- 
steak and  homesickness  thereby.  But  you  wait  till 
yuh  get  to  the  ranch  and  old  Perry  Potter  puts  yuh 
through  your  paces.  You'll  thank  the  Lord  every 
sundown  that  yuh  ain't  a  forty-dollar  man  that  has 
got  to  drill  right  along  or  get  fired ;  you'll  pat  your- 
self on  the  back  more  than  once  that  you've  got  a 
cinch  on  your  job  and  can  lay  off  whenever  yuh  feel 
like  it.  From  all  the  signs  and  tokens,  us  Ragged 

170 


The     Range     Dwellers 

H  punchers'll  be  wise  to  trade  our  beds  off  for  lan- 
terns to  ride  by.  Your  dad's  bought  a  lot  more 
cattle,  and  they've  drifted  like  hell;  we've  got  to 
cover  mighty  near  the  whole  State  uh  Montana  and 
part  uh  South  Africa  to  gather  them  in." 

"You're  a  blamed  pessimist,"  I  told  him,  "and 
you  can't  give  me  cold  feet  that  easy.  If  you  knew 
how  I  ache  to  get  a  good  horse  under  me " 

"Thought  they  had  horses  out  your  way,"  Frosty 
cut  in. 

"A  range-horse,  you  idiot,  and  a  range-saddle. 
I  did  ride  some  on  a  fancy-gaited  steed  with  a  sad- 
dle that  resembled  a  porus  plaster  and  stirrups  like 
a  lady's  bracelet;  it  didn't  fill  the  aching  void  a  lit- 
tle bit." 

"Well,  maybe  yuh  won't  feel  any  aching  void  out 
here,"  he  said,  "but  if  yuh  follow  round-up  this 
season  you'll  sure  have  plenty  of  other  brands  of 
ache." 

I  told  him  I'd  be  right  with  them  at  the  finish, 
and  he  needn't  to  worry  any  about  me.  Pretty  soon 
I'll  show  you  how  well  I  kept  my  word.  We  rode 

171 


The     Range     Dwellers 

and  rode,  and  handed  out  our  experiences  to  each 
other,  and  got  to  Pochette's  that  night.  I  couldn't 
help  remembering  the  last  time  I'd  been  over  that 
trail,  and  how  rocky  I  felt  about  things.  Frosty 
said  he  wasn't  worried  about  that  walk  of  his  into 
Pochette's  growing  dim  in  his  memory,  either. 

Well,  then,  we  got  to  Pochette's — I  think  I  have 
remarked  the  fact.  And  at  Pochette's,  just  unhar- 
nessing his  team,  limped  my  friend  of  White  Di- 
vide, old  King.  Funny  how  a  man's  view-point  will 
change  when  there's  a  girl  cached  somewhere  in 
the  background.  Not  even  the  memory  of  Shy- 
lock's  stiffening  limbs  could  bring  me  to  a  mood  for 
war.  On  the  contrary,  I  felt  more  like  rushing  up 
and  asking  him  how  were  all  the  folks,  and  when 
did  Beryl  expect  to  come  home.  But  not  Frosty; 
he  drove  phlegmatically  up  so  that  there  was  just 
comfortable  space  for  a  man  to  squeeze  between  our 
rig  and  King's,  hopped  out,  and  began  unhooking 
the  traces  as  if  there  wasn't  a  soul  but  us  around. 
King  was  looping  up  the  lines  of  his  team,  and  he 
glared  at  us  across  the  backs  of  his  horses  as  if  we 

172 


The     Range     Dwellers 

were — well,  caterpillars  at  a  picnic  and  he  was  a 
girl  with  nice  clothes  and  a  fellow  and  a  set  of 
nerves.  His  next  logical  move  would  be  to  let  out 
a  squawk  and  faint,  I  thought;  in  which  case  I 
should  have  started  in  to  do  the  comforting,  with 
a  dipper  of  water  from  the  pump.  He  didn't  faint, 
though. 

I  walked  around  and  let  down  the  neck-yoke,  and 
his  eyes  followed  me  with  suspicion.  "Hello,  Mr. 
King,"  I  sang  out  in  a  brazen  attempt  to  hypno- 
tize him  into  the  belief  we  were  friends.  "How's 
the  world  using  you,  these  days?" 

"Huh!"  grunted  the  unhypnotized  one,  deep  in 
his  chest. 

Frosty  straightened  up  and  looked  at  me  queerly ; 
he  said  afterward  that  he  couldn't  make  out  whether 
I  was  trying  to  pull  off  a  gun  fight,  or  had  gone 
dippy. 

But  I  was  only  in  the  last  throes  of  exuberance 
at  being  in  the  country  at  all,  and  I  didn't  give  a 
damn  what  King  thought;  I'd  made  up  my  mind 
to  be  sociable,  and  that  settled  it. 

173 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"Range  is  looking  fine,"  I  remarked,  snapping 
the  inside  checks  back  into  the  hame-rings.  "Stock 
come  through  the  winter  in  good  shape?"  Oh,  I 
had  my  nerve  right  along  with  me. 

"You  go  to  hell,"  advised  King,  bringing  out 
each  word  fresh-coined  and  shiny  with  feeling. 

"I  was  headed  that  way,"  I  smiled  across  at 
him,  "but  at  the  last  minute  I  gave  Montana  first 
choice;  I  knew  you  were  still  here,  you  see." 

He  let  go  the  bridle  of  the  horse  he  was  about 
to  lead  away  to  the  stable,  and  limped  around  so 
that  he  stood  within  two  feet  of  me.  "Yuh  want 

to "  he  began,  and  then  his  mouth  stayed  open 

and  silent. 

I  had  reached  out  and  got  him  by  the  hand,  and 
gave  him  a  grip — the  grip  that  made  all  the  fellows 
quit  offering  their  paws  to  me  in  Frisco. 

"Put  it  there,  King!"  I  cried  idiotically  and  as 
heartily  as  I  knew  how.  "Glad  to  see  you.  Dad's 
well  and  busy  as  usual,  and  sends  regards.  How's 
your  good  health  ?" 

He  was  squirming  good  and  plenty,  by  that  time, 
174 


The     Range     Dwellers 

and  I  let  him  go.  I  acted  the  fool,  all  right,  and  I 
don't  tell  it  to  have  any  one  think  I  was  a  smart 
young  sprig;  I'm  just  putting  it  out  straight  as  it 
happened. 

Frosty  stood  back,  and  I  noticed,  out  of  the  tail 
of  my  eye,  that  he  was  ready  for  trouble  and  ex- 
pecting it  to  come  in  bunches;  and  I  didn't  know, 
myself,  but  what  I  was  due  for  new  ventilators  in 
my  system. 

But  King  never  did  a  thing  but  stand  and  hold 
his  hand  and  look  at  me.  I  couldn't  even  guess  at 
what  he  thought.  In  half  a  minute  or  less  he  got 
his  horse  by  the  bridle  again — with  his  left  hand — 
and  went  limping  off  ahead  of  us  to  the  stable,  say- 
ing things  in  his  collar. 

"You  blasted  fool,"  Frosty  muttered  to  me. 
"You've  done  it  real  pretty,  this  time.  That  old 
Siwash'll  cut  your  throat,  like  as  not,  to  pay  for 
all  those  insulting  remarks  and  that  hand-shake." 

"First  time  I  ever  insulted  a  man  by  shaking 
hands  and  telling  him  I  was  glad  to  see  him,"  I 
retorted.  "And  I  don't  think  it  will  be  necessary 

'75 


The     Range     Dwellers 

for  you  to  stand  guard  over  my  jugular  to-night, 
either.  That  old  boy  will  take  a  lot  of  time  to 
study  out  the  situation,  if  I'm  any  judge.  You 
won't  hear  a  peep  out  of  him,  and  I'll  bet  money 
on  it." 

"All  right,"  said  Frosty,  and  his  tone  sounded 
dubious.  "But  you're  the  first  Ragged  H  man  that 
has  ever  walked  up  and  shook  hands  with  the  old 
devil.  Perry  Potter  himself  wouldn't  have  the 
nerve." 

Now,  that  was  a  compliment,  but  I  don't  believe 
I  took  it  just  the  way  Frosty  meant  I  should.  I 
was  proud  as  thunder  to  have  him  call  me  a 
"Ragged  H  man"  so  unconsciously.  It  showed 
that  he  really  thought  of  me  simply  as  one  of  the 
boys ;  that  the  "son  and  heir"  view-point — oh,  that 
had  always  rankled,  deep  down  where  we  bury  un- 
pleasant things  in  our  memory — had  been  utterly 
forgotten.  So  the  tribute  to  my  nerve  didn't  go  for 
anything  beside  that.  I  was  a  "Ragged  H  man," 
on  the  same  footing  as  the  rest  of  them.  It's  silly 
owning  it,  but  it  gave  me  a  little  tingle  of  pleasure 

176 


The     Range     Dwellers 

to  have  one  of  dad's  men  call  dad's  son  and  heir 
"a  blasted  fool."  I  don't  believe  the  Lord  made 
me  an  aristocrat. 

We  didn't  see  anything  more  of  King  till  supper 
was  called.  At  Pochette's  you  sit  down  to  a  long 
table  covered  with  dartc-red  mottled  oilcloth  and 
sprinkled  with  things  to  eat,  and  watch  that  your 
elbow  doesn't  cause  your  nearest  neighbor  to  do  the 
sword-swallowing  act  involuntarily  and  disastrously 
with  his  knife,  or — you  don't  eat.  Frosty  and  I 
had  walked  down  to  the  ferry-crossing  while  we 
waited,  and  then  were  late  getting  into  the  game 
when  we  heard  the  summons. 

We  went  in  and  sat  down  just  as  the  Chinaman 
was  handing  thick  cups  of  coffee  around  rather 
sloppily.  From  force  of  habit  I  looked  for  my  nap- 
kin, remembered  that  I  was  in  a  napkinless  region, 
and  glanced  up  to  see  if  any  one  had  noticed. 

Just  across  from  me  old  King  was  pushing  back 
his  chair  and  getting  stiffly  upon  his  feet.  He  met 
my  eyes  squarely — friend  or  enemy,  I  like  a  man 
to  do  that — and  scowled. 

177 


"Through  already?"  I  reached  for  the  sugar- 
bowl. 

"What's  it  to  you,  damn  yuh?"  he  snapped,  but 
we  could  see  at  a  glance  that  King  had  not  begun 
his  meal. 

I  looked  at  Frosty,  and  he  seemed  waiting  for 
me  to  say  something.  So  I  said:  "Too  bad — we 
Ragged  H  men  are  such  mighty  slow  eaters.  If 
it's  on  my  account,  sit  right  down  and  make  your- 
self comfortable.  I  don't  mind;  I  dare  say  I've 
eaten  in  worse  company." 

He  went  off  growling,  and  I  leaned  back  and 
stirred  my  coffee  as  leisurely  as  if  I  were  killing 
time  over  a  bit  of  crab  in  the  Palace,  waiting  for 
my  order  to  come.  Frosty,  I  observed,  had  also 
slowed  down  perceptibly;  and  so  we  "toyed  with 
the  viands"  just  like  a  girl  in  a  story — in  real  life, 
I've  noticed,  girls  develop  full-grown  appetites  and 
aren't  ashamed  of  them.  King  went  outside  to 
wait,  and  I'm  sure  I  hope  he  enjoyed  it ;  I  know  we 
did.  We  drank  three  cups  of  coffee  apiece,  ate  a 
platter  of  fried  fish,  and  took  plenty  of  time  over 

178 


The     Range     Dwellers 

the  bones,  got  into  an  argument  over  who  was 
Lazarus  with  the  fellow  at  the  end  of  the  table,  and 
were  too  engrossed  to  eat  a  mouthful  while  it 
lasted.  We  had  the  bad  manners  to  pick  our  teeth 
thoroughly  with  the  wooden  toothpicks,  and  Frosty 
showed  me  how  to  balance  a  knife  and  fork  on  a 
toothpick — or,  perhaps,  it  was  two — on  the  edge 
of  his  cup.  I  tried  it  several  times,  but  couldn't 
make  it  work. 

The  others  had  finished  long  ago  and  were  sit- 
ting around  next  the  wall  watching  us  while  they 
smoked.  About  that  time  King  put  his  head  in  at 
the  door,  and  looked  at  us. 

"Just  a  minute,"  I  cheered  him.  Frosty  began 
cracking  his  prune-pits  and  eating  the  meats,  and  I 
went  at  it,  too.  I  don't  like  prune-pits  a  little  bit. 

The  pits  finished,  Frosty  looked  anxiously  around 
the  table.  There  was  nothing  more  except  some 
butter  that  we  hadn't  the  nerve  to  tackle  single- 
handed,  and  some  salt  and  a  bottle  of  ketchup  and 
the  toothpicks.  We  went  at  the  toothpicks  again; 

179 


The     Range     Dwellers 

until  Frosty  got  a  splinter  stuck  between  his  teeth, 
and  had  a  deuce  of  a  time  getting  it  out. 

"I've  heard,"  he  sighed,  when  the  splinter  lay  in 
his  palm,  "that  some  state  dinners  last  three  or 
four  hours ;  blamed  if  I  see  how  they  work  it.  I'm 
through.  I  lay  down  my  hand  right  here — unless 
you're  willing  to  tackle  the  ketchup.  If  you  are,  I 
stay  with  you,  and  I'll  eat  half."  He  sighed  again 
when  he  promised. 

For  answer  I  pushed  back  my  chair.  Frosty 
smiled  and  followed  me  out.  For  the  satisfaction 
of  the  righteous  I  will  say  that  we  both  suffered 
from  indigestion  that  night,  which  I  suppose  was 
just  and  right. 


180 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  Cable  Snaps. 

Our  lazy  land  smiling  and  dreaming  to  itself  had 
disappeared;  in  its  stead,  the  wind  howled  down, 
the  river  from  the  west  and  lashed  the  water  into 
what  would  have  looked  respectable  waves  to  one 
who  had  not  been  on  the  ocean  and  seen  the  real 
thing.  The  new  grass  lay  flat  upon  the  prairies, 
and  chunks  of  dirt  rattled  down  from  the  roof  of 
Pochette's  primitive  abiding-place.  It  is  true  the 
sun  shone,  but  I  really  wouldn't  have  been  at  all  sur- 
prised if  the  wind  had  blown  it  out,  'most  any  time. 

Pochette  himself  looked  worried  when  we  trooped 
in  to  breakfast.  (By  the  way,  old  King  never 
showed  up  till  we  were  through ;  then  he  limped  in 
and  sat  down  to  the  table  without  a  glance  our 
way.)  While  we  were  smoking,  over  by  the  fire- 
place, Pochette  came  sidling  up  to  us.  He  was  a 
little  skimpy  man  with  crooked  legs,  a  real  French 

181 


The     Range     Dwellers 

cut  of  beard,  and  an  apologetic  manner.  I  think 
he  rather  prided  himself  upon  his  familiarity  with 
the  English  language — especially  that  part  which  is 
censored  so  severely  by  editors  that  only  a  half- 
dozen  words  are  permitted  to  appear  in  cold  type, 
and  sometimes  even  they  must  hide  their  faces  be- 
hind such  flimsy  veils  as  this :  d n.  So  if  I 

never  quote  Mr.  Pochette  verbatim,  you'll  know 
why. 

"I  theenk  you  will  not  wish  for  cross  on  the 
reever,  no?"  he  began  ingratiatingly.  "The  weend 

she  blow  lak ,  and  my  boat,  she  zat 

small,  she ." 

I  caught  King  looking  at  us  from  under  his  eye- 
brows, so  I  was  airily  indifferent  to  wind  or  water. 
"Sure,  we  want  to  cross,"  I  said.  "Just  as  soon 
as  we  finish  our  smoke,  Pochette." 

"But,  mon  Dieu!"  (Ever  hear  tell  of  a  French- 
man that  didn't  begin  his  sentences  that  way?  In 
this  case,  however,  Pochette  really  said  just  that.) 

"The  weend,  she  blow  lak  " 

182 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"  'A  hurricane ;  bimeby  by  she  blaw  some  more/  " 
I  quoted  bravely.  "It's  all  right,  Pochette;  let  her 
howl.  We're  going  to  cross,  just  the  same.  It 
isn't  likely  you'll  have  to  make  the  trip  for  any- 
body else  to-day."  I  didn't  mean  to,  but  I  looked 
over  toward  King,  and  caught  the  glint  of  his  un- 
friendly eyes  upon  me.  Also,  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  hunched  up  for  a  second  in  what  looked  like 
a  sneer.  But  the  Lord  knows  I  wasn't  casting  any 
aspersions  on  his  nerve. 

He  must  have  taken  it  that  way,  though;  for  he 
went  out  when  we  did  and  hooked  up,  and  when 
we  drove  down  to  where  the  little  old  scow  they 
called  a  ferry  was  bobbing  like  a  decoy-duck  in  the 
water,  he  was  just  behind  us  with  his  team. 
Pochette  looked  at  him,  and  at  us,  and  at  the  river; 
and  his  meager  little  face  with  its  pointed  beard 
looked  like  a  perturbed  gnome — if  you  ever  saw 
one. 

"The  leetle  boat,  she  not  stand  for  ze  beeg  load. 
The  weend,  she " 

"Aw,  what  yuh  running  a  ferry  for  ?"  Frosty  cut 
183 


The     Range     Dwellers 

in  impatiently.  "There's  a  good,  strong  current  on, 
to-day;  she'll  go  across  on  a  high  run." 

Pochette  shook  his  head  still  more  dubiously,  till 
I  got  down  and  bolstered  up  his  courage  with  a 
small  piece  of  gold.  They're  all  alike ;  their  courage 
ebbs  and  flows  on  a  golden  tide,  if  you'll  let  me  in- 
dulge in  a  bit  of  unnecessary  hyperbole.  He  worked 
the  scow  around  end  on  to  the  bank,  so  that  we 
could  drive  on.  The  team  wasn't  a  bit  stuck  on 
going,  but  Frosty  knows  how  to  handle  horses,  and 
they  steadied  when  he  went  to  their  heads  and  talked 
to  them. 

We  were  so  busy  with  our  own  affairs  that  we 
didn't  notice  what  was  going  on  behind  us  till  we 
heard  Pochette  declaiming  bad  profanity  in  a  high 
soprano.  Then  I  turned,  and  he  was  trying  to  stand 
off  old  King.  But  King  wasn't  that  sort ;  he  yelled 
to  us  to  move  up  and  make  room,  and  then  took 
down  his  whip  and  started  up.  Pochette  pirouetted 
out  of  the  way,  and  stood  holding  to  the  low  plank 
railing  while  he  went  on  saying  things  that,  prop- 
erly pronounced,  must  have  been  very  blasphemous. 

184 


The     Range     Dwellers 

King  paid  about  as  much  attention  to  him  as  he 
would  to  a  good-sized  prairie-dog  chittering  beside 
its  burrow.  I  reckon  he  knew  Pochette  pretty  well. 
He  got  his  rig  in  place  and  climbed  down  and  went 
to  his  horses'  heads. 

"Now,  shove  off,  dammit,"  he  ordered,  just  as  if 
no  one  had  been  near  bursting  a  blood-vessel  within 
ten  feet  of  him. 

Pochette  gulped,  worked  the  point  of  his  beard 
up  and  down  like  a  villain  in  a  second-rate  melo- 
drama, and  shoved  off.  The  current  and  the  wind 
caught  us  in  their  grip,  and  we  swashed  out  from 
shore  and  got  under  way. 

I  can't  say  that  trip  looked  good  to  me,  from  the 
first  rod  out.  Of  course,  the  river  couldn't  rear 
up  and  get  real  savage,  like  the  ocean,  but  there 
were  choppy  little  waves  that  were  plenty  nasty 
enough,  once  you  got  to  bucking  them  with  a  blunt- 
nosed  old  scow  fastened  to  a  cable  that  swayed  and 
sagged  in  the  wind  that  came  howling  down  on  us. 
And  with  two  rigs  on,  we  filled  her  from  bow  to 
stern;  all  but  about  four  feet  around  the  edges. 

185 


The     Range     Dwellers 

Frosty  looked  across  to  the  farther  shore,  then  at 
the  sagging  cable,  and  then  at  me.  I  gathered  that 
he  had  his  doubts,  too,  but  he  wouldn't  say  any- 
thing. Nobody  did,  for  that  matter.  Even  Poch- 
ette wasn't  doing  anything  but  chew  his  whiskers 
and  watch  the  cable. 

Then  she  broke,  with  a  snap  like  a  rifle,  and  a 
jolt  that  came  near  throwing  us  off  our  feet. 
Pochette  gave  a  yell  and  relapsed  into  French  that 
I'd  hate  to  translate;  it  would  shock  even  his  own 
countrymen.  The  ferry  ducked  and  bobbed,  now 
there  was  nothing  to  hold  its  nose  steady  to  the  cur- 
rent, and  went  careering  down  river  with  all  hands 
aboard  and  looking  for  trouble. 

We  didn't  do  anything,  though ;  there  wasn't  any- 
thing to  do  but  stay  right  where  we  were  and  take 
chances.  If  she  stayed  right  side  up  we  would 
probably  land  eventually.  If  she  flopped,  over — 
which  she  seemed  trying  to  do,  we'd  get  a  cold  bath 
and  lose  our  teams,  if  no  worse. 

Soon  as  I  thought  of  that,  I  began  unhooking  the 
traces  of  the  horse  nearest.  The  poor  brutes  ought 

186 


The     Range     Dwellers 

at  least  to  have  a  chance  to  swim  for  it."  Frosty 
caught  on,  and  went  to  work,  too,  and  in  half  a 
minute  we  had  them  free  of  the  wagon  and  stripped 
of  everything  but  their  bridles.  They  would  have 
as  good  a  show  as  we,  and  maybe  better. 

I  looked  back  to  see  what  King  was  doing.  He 
was  having  troubles  of  his  own,  trying  to  keep  one 
of  his  cayuses  on  all  its  feet  at  once.  It  was  scared, 
poor  devil,  and  it  took  all  his  strength  on  the  bit  to 
keep  it  from  rearing  and  maybe  upsetting  the  whole 
bunch.  Pochette  wasn't  doing  anything  but  lament, 
so  I  went  back  and  unhooked  King's  horses  for  him, 
and  took  off  the  harness  and  threw  it  in  the  back  of 
his  wagon  so  they  wouldn't  tangle  their  feet  in  it 
when  it  came  to  a  show-down. 

I  don't  think  he  was  what  you  could  call  grateful ; 
he  never  looked  my  way  at  all,  but  went  on  cussing 
the  horse  he  was  holding,  for  acting  up  just  when 
he  should  keep  his  wits.  I  went  back  to  Frosty,  and 
we  stood  elbows  touching,  waiting  for  whatever 
was  coming. 

For  what  seemed  a  long  while,  nothing  came  but 
187 


The     Range     Dwellers 

wind  and  water.  But  I  don't  mind  saying  that 
there  was  plenty  of  that,  and  if  either  one  had  been 
suddenly  barred  out  of  the  gatne  we  wouldn't  any 
of  us  have  called  the  umpire  harsh  names.  We 
drifted,  slippety-slosh,  and  the  wind  ripped  holes  in 
the  atmosphere  and  made  our  eyes  water  with  the 
bare  force  of  it  when  we  faced  the  west.  And  none 
of  us  had  anything  to  say,  except  Pochette;  he  said 
a  lot,  I  remember,  but  never  mind  what.  I  don't 
suppose  he  was  mentally  responsible  at  the  time. 

Then,  a  long,  narrow,  yellow  tongue  of  sand-bar 
seemed  to  reach  right  out  into  the  river  and  lap  us 
up.  We  landed  with  a  worse  jolt  than  when  we 
broke  away  from  the  cable,  and  the  gray-blue  river 
went  humping  past  without  us.  Frosty  and  I 
looked  at  each  other  and  grinned ;  after  all,  we  were 
coming  out  of  the  deal  better  than  we  had  expected, 
for  we  were  still  right  side  up  and  on  the  side  of  the 
river  toward  home.  We  were  a  mile  or  so  down 
river  from  the  trail,  but  once  we  were  on  the  bank 
with  our  rig,  that  was  nothing. 

We  had  landed  head  on,  with  the  nose  of  the 
1 88 


The     Range     Dwellers 

scow  plowed  high  and  dry.  Being  at  the  front,  we 
went  at  getting  our  team  off,  and  our  wagon. 
There  was  a  four  or  five-foot  jump  to  make,  and 
the  horses  didn't  know  how  about  it,  at  first.  But 
with  one  of  us  pulling,  and  the  other  slashing  them 
over  the  rump,  they  made  it,  one  at  a  time.  The 
sand  was  soft  and  acted  something  like  quicksand, 
too,  and  we  hustled  them  to  shore  and  tied  them 
to  some  bushes.  The  bank  was  steep  there,  and  we 
didn't  know  how  we  were  going  to  make  the  climb, 
but  we  left  that  to  worry  over  afterward ;  we  still 
had  our  rig  to  get  ashore,  and  it  began  to  look  like 
quite  a  contract. 

We  went  back,  with  our  boot  tracks  going  deep, 
and  then  filling  up  and  settling  back  almost  level 
six  steps  behind  us.  Frosty  looked  back  at  them 
and  scowled. 

"For  sand  that  isn't  quicksand,"  he  said,  "this 
layout  will  stand  about  as  little  monkeying  with  as 
any  sand  I  ever  met  up  with.  Time  we  make  a  few 
trips  over  it,  she's  going  to  be  pudding  without  the 

189 


The     Range     Dwellers 

raisins.  And  that's  a  picnic,  with  our  rig  on  the 
main  deck,  as  you  might  say." 

We  went  back  and  sat  swinging  our  legs  off  the 
free-board  end  of  the  ferry-boat,  and  rolled  us  a 
smoke  apiece  and  considered  the  next  move.  King 
was  somewhere  back  between  our  rig  and  his,  cuss- 
ing Pochette  to  a  fare-you-well  for  having  such  a 
rotten  layout  and  making  white  men  pay  good 
money  for  the  privilege  of  risking  their  lives  and 
property  upon  it. 

"We'll  have  to  unload  and  take  the  wagon  to 
pieces  and  pack  everything  ashore — I  guess  that's 
our  only  show,"  said  Frosty.  We  had  just  given 
up  my  idea  of  working  the  scow  up  along  the  bar 
to  the  bank.  We  couldn't  budge  her  off  the  sand, 
and  Pochette  warned  us  that  if  we  did  the  wind 
would  immediately  commence  doing  things  to  us 
again. 

Frosty's  idea  seemed  the  only  possible  way,  so 
we  threw  away  our  cigarettes  and  got  ready  for 
business;  the  dismembering  and  carrying  ashore  of 
that  road-wagon  promised  to  be  no  light  task. 

190 


The     Range     Dwellers 

Frosty  yelled  to  Pochette  to  come  and  get  busy,  and 
went  to  work  on  the  rig.  It  looked  to  me  like  a 
case  where  we  were  all  in  the  same  fix,  and  personal 
spite  shouldn't  count  for  anything,  but  King  was 
leaning  against  the  wheel  of  his  buggy,  cramming 
tobacco  into  his  stubby  pipe — the  same  one  appar- 
ently that  I  had  rescued  from  the  pickle-barrel — 
and,  seeing  the  wind  scatter  half  of  it  broadcast,  as 
though  he  didn't  care  a  rap  whether  he  got  solid 
earth  beneath  his  feet  once  more,  or  went  floating 
down  the  river.  I  wanted  to  propose  a  truce  for 
such  time  as  it  would  take  to  get  us  all  safe  on 
terra  firma,  but  on  second  thoughts  I  refrained. 
We  could  get  off  without  his  help,  and  he  was  the 
sort  of  man  who  would  cheerfully  have  gone  to  his 
last  long  sleep  at  the  bottom  of  that  boiling  river 
rather  than  accept  the  assistance  of  an  enemy. 

The  next  couple  of  hours  was  a  season  of  aching 
back,  and  sloppy  feet,  and  grunting,  and  swearing 
that  I  don't  much  care  about  remembering  in  detail. 
The  wind  blew  till  the  tears  ran  down  our  cheeks. 
The  sand  stuck  and  clogged  every  move  we  made 

191 


The     Range     Dwellers 

till  I  used  to  dream  of  it  afterward.  If  you  think 
it  was  just  a  simple  little  job,  taking  that  rig  to 
pieces  and  packing  it  to  dry  land  on  our  backs, 
just  give  another  guess.  And  if  you  think  we  were 
any  of  us  in  a  mood  to  look  at  it  as  a  joke,  you're 
miles  off  the  track. 

Pochette  helped  us  like  a  little  man — he  had  to, 
or  we'd  have  done  him  up  right  there.  Old  King 
sat  on  the  ferry-rail  and  smoked,  and  watched  us 
break  our  backs  sardonically — I  did  think  I  had 
that  last  word  in  the  wrong  place ;  but  I  think  not. 
We  did  break  our  backs  sardonically,  and  he 
watched  us  in  the  same  fashion ;  so  the  word  stands 
as  she  is. 

When  the  last  load  was  safe  on  the  bank,  I  went 
back  to  the  boat.  It  seemed  a  low-down  way  to 
leave  a  man,  and  now  he  knew  I  wasn't  fishing  for 
help,  I  didn't  mind  speaking  to  the  old  reprobate. 
So  I  went  up  and  faced  him,  still  sitting  on  the 
ferry-rail,  and  still  smoking. 

"Mr.  King,"  I  said  politely  as  I  could,  "we're  all 
192 


The     Range     Dwellers 

right  now,  and,  if  you  like,  we'll  help  you  off.  It 
won't  take  long  if  we  all  get  to  work." 

He  took  two  long  puffs,  and  pressed  the  tobacco 
down  in  his  pipe.  "You  go  to  hell,"  he  advised 
me  for  the  second  time.  "When  I  want  any  help 
from  you  or  your  tribe,  I'll  let  yuh  know." 

It  took  me  just  one  second  to  backslide  from  my 
politeness.  "Go  to  the  devil,  then!"  I  snapped.  "I 
hope  you  have  to  stay  on  the  damn'  bar  a  week." 
Then  I  went  plucking  back  through  the  sand  that 
almost  pulled  the  shoes  off  my  feet  every  step,  kick- 
ing myself  for  many  kinds  of  a  fool.  Lord,  but  I 
was  mad! 

Pochette  went  back  to  the  boat  and  old  King, 
after  nearly  getting  kicked  into  the  river  for  hint- 
ing that  we  ought  to  pay  for  the  damage  and  trou- 
ble we  had  caused  him.  Frosty  and  I  weren't  in 
any  frame  of  mind  for  such  a  hold-up,  and  it  didn't 
take  him  long  to  find  it  out. 

The  bank  there  was  so  steep  that  we  had  to  pack 
my  trunk  and  what  other  truck  had  been  brought 
out  from  Osage,  up  to  the  top  by  hand.  That  was 

193 


The     Range     Dwellers 

another  temper-sweetening  job.  Then  we  put  the 
wagon  together,  hitched  on  the  horses,  and  they 
managed  to  get  to  the  top  with  it,  by  a  scratch.  It 
all  took  time — and,  as  for  patience,  we'd  been  out 
of  that  commodity  for  so  long  we  hardly  knew  it 
by  name. 

The  last  straw  fell  on  us  just  as  we  were  load- 
ing up.  I  happened  to  look  down  upon  the  ferry; 
and  what  do  you  suppose  that  old  devil  was  doing? 
He  had  torn  up  the  back  part  of  the  plank  floor  of 
the  ferry,  and  had  laid  it  along  the  sand  for  a 
bridge.  He  had  made  an  incline  from  boat  nose  to 
the  bar,  and  had  rough-locked  his  wagon  and  driven 
it  down.  Just  as  we  looked,  he  had  come  to  the 
end  of  his  bridge,  and  he  and  Pochette  were  taking 
up  the  planks  behind  and  extending  the  platform 
out  in  front. 

Well !  maybe  you  think  Frosty  and  I  stood  there 
congratulating  the  old  fox.  Frosty  wanted  me  to 
kick  him,  I  remember;  and  he  said  a  lot  of  things 
that  sounded  inspired  to  me,  they  hit  my  feelings 
off  so  straight.  If  we  had  had  the  sense  to  do  what 

194 


The     Range     Dwellers 

old  King  was  doing,  we'd  have  been  ten  or  fifteen 
miles  nearer  home  than  we  were. 

But,  anyway,  we  were  up  the  bank  ahead  of  him, 
and  we  loaded  in  the  last  package  and  drove  away 
from  the  painful  scene  at  a  lope.  And  you  can  im- 
agine how  we  didn't  love  old  King  any  better,  after 
that  experience. 


195 


CHAPTER  XII. 

/  Begin  to  Realise. 

If  I  had  hoped  that  I'd  gotten  over  any  foolish-, 
ness  by  spending  the  fall  and  winter  away  from 
White  Divide — or  the  sight  of  it — I  commenced 
right  away  to  find  out  my  mistake.  No  sooner  did 
the  big  ridge  rise  up  from  the  green  horizon,  than 
every  scar,  and  wrinkle,  and  abrupt  little  peak  fairly 
shouted  things  about  Beryl  King. 

She  wasn't  there;  she  was  back  in  New  York, 
and  that  blasted  Terence  Weaver  was  back  there, 
too,  making  all  kinds  of  love  to  her  according  to 
the  letters  of  Edith.  But  I  hadn't  realized  just 
how  seriously  I  was  taking  it,  till  I  got  within  sight 
of  the  ridge  that  had  sheltered  her  abiding-place  and 
had  made  all  the  trouble. 

Like  a  fool  I  had  kept  telling  myself  that  I  was 
fair  sick  for  the  range ;  for  range-horses  and  range- 
living;  for  the  wind  that  always  blows  over  the 

196 


The     Range     Dwellers 

prairies,  and  for  the  cattle  that  feed  on  the  hills 
and  troop  down  the  long  coulee  bottoms  to  drink  at 
their  favorite  watering-places.  I  thought  it  was  the 
boys  I  wanted  to  see,  and  to  gallop  out  with  them 
in  the  soft  sunrise,  and  lie  down  with  them  under  a 
tent  roof  at  night;  that  I  wanted  to  eat  my  meals 
sitting  cross-legged  in  the  grass,  with  my  plate 
piled  with  all  the  courses  at  once  and  my  cup  of 
coffee  balanced  precariously  somewhere  within 
reach. 

That's  what  I  thought.  When  things  tasted  flat 
in  old  Frisco,  I  wasn't  dead  sure  why,  and  maybe 
I  didn't  want  to  be  sure  why.  When  I  couldn't  get 
hold  of  anything  that  had  the  old  tang,  I  laid  it 
all  to  a  hankering  after  round-up. 

Even  when  we  drove  around  the  end  of  White 
Divide,  and  got  up  on  a  ridge  where  I  could  see  the 
long  arm  that  stretched  out  from  the  east  side  of 
King's  Highway,  I  wouldn't  own  up  to  myself  that 
there  was  the  cause  of  all  my  bad  feelings.  I  think 
Frosty  knew,  all  along;  for  when  I  had  sat  with 
my  face  turned  to  the  divide,  and  had  let  my  ciga- 

197 


The     Range     Dwellers 

rette  go  cold  while  I  thought  and  thought,  and  re- 
membered, he  didn't  say  a  word.  But  when  mem- 
ory came  down  to  that  last  ride  through  the  pass, 
and  to  Shylock  shot  down  by  the  corral,  at  last  to 
Frosty  standing,  tall  and  dark,  against  the  first  yel- 
low streak  of  sunrise,  while  I  rode  on  and  left  him 
afoot  beside  a  half-dead  horse,  I  turned  my  eyes 
and  looked  at  his  thin,  thoughtful  face  beside  me. 

His  eyes  met  mine  for  half  a  minute,  and  he  had 
a  little  twitching  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
"Chirk  up,"  he  said  quietly.  "The  chances  are 
she'll  come  back  this  summer." 

I  guess  I  blushed.  Anyway,  I  didn't  think  of 
anything  to  say  that  would  be  either  witty  or 
squelching,  and  could  only  relight  my  cigarette  and 
look  the  fool  I  felt.  He'd  caught  me  right  in  the 
solar  plexus,  and  we  both  knew  it,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  say.  So  after  awhile  we  commenced 
talking  about  a  new  bunch  of  horses  that  dad  had 
bought  through  an  agent,  and  that  had  to  be  saddle- 
broke  that  summer,  and  I  kept  my  eyes  away  from 

198 


The     Range     Dwellers 

White  Divide  and  my  mind  from  all  it  meant  to 
me. 

The  old  ranch  did  look  good  to  me,  and  Perry 
Potter  actually  shook  hands;  if  you  knew  him  as 
well  as  I  do  you'd  realize  better  what  such  a  demon- 
stration means,  coming  from  a  fellow  like  him. 
Why,  even  his  lips  are  always  shut  with  a  draw- 
string— from  the  looks — to  keep  any  words  but 
what  are  actually  necessary  from  coming  out.  His 
eyes  have  the  same  look,  kind  of  pulled  in  at  the 
corners.  No,  don't  ever  accuse  Perry  Potter  of 
being  a  demonstrative  man,  or  a  loquacious  one. 

I  had  two  days  at  the  ranch,  getting  fitted  into 
the  life  again ;  on  the  third  the  round-up  started,  and 
I  packed  a  "war-bag"  of  essentials,  took  my  last 
summer's  chaps  down  off  the  nail  in  the  bunk-house 
where  they  had  hung  all  that  time  as  a  sort  of  ab- 
sent-but-not-forgotten memento,  one  of  the  boys 
told  me,  and  started  out  in  full  regalia  and  with  an 
enthusiasm  that  was  real — while  it  lasted. 

If  you  never  slept  on  the  new  grass  with  only  a 
bit  of  canvas  between  you  and  the  stars ;  if  you  have 

199 


The     Range     Dwellers 

never  rolled  out,  at  daylight,  and  dressed  before 
your  eyes  were  fair  open,  and  rushed  with  the  bunch 
over  to  the  mess-wagon  for  your  breakfast;  if  you 
have  never  saddled  hurriedly  a  range-bred  and 
range-broken  cayuse  with  a  hump  in  his  back  and 
seven  devils  in  his  eye,  and  gone  careening  across 
the  dew-wet  prairie  like  a  tug-boat  in  a  choppy 
sea;  if  you  have  never — well,  if  you  don't  know 
what  it's  all  like,  and  how  it  gets  into  the  very 
bones  of  you  so  that  the  hankering  never  quite 
leaves  you  when  you  try  to  give  it  up,  I'm  not  going 
to  tell  you.  I  can't.  If  I  could,  you'd  know  just 
how  heady  it  made  me  feel  those  first  few  days 
after  we  started  out  to  "work  the  range." 

I  was  fond  of  telling  myself,  those  days,  that  I'd 
been  more  scared  than  hurt,  and  that  it  was  the 
range  I  was  in  love  with,  and  not  Beryl  King  at 
all.  She  was  simply  a  part  of  it — but  she  wasn't 
the  whole  thing,  nor  even  a  part  that  was  going  to 
be  indispensable  to  my  mental  comfort.  I  was  a 
free  man  once  more,  and  so  long  as  I  had  a  good 
horse  under  me,  and  a  bunch  of  the  right  sort  of 

200 


The     Range     Dwellers 

fellows  to  lie  down  in  the  same  tent  with,  I  wasn't 
going  to  worry  much  over  any  girl. 

That,  for  as  long  as  a  week ;  and  that,  more  than 
pages  of  description,  shows  you  how  great  is  the 
spell  of  the  range-land,  and  how  it  grips  a  man. 


201 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

We  Meet  Once  More. 

I  think  it  was  about  three  weeks  that  I  stayed 
with  the  round-up.  I  didn't  get  tired  of  the  life, 
or  weary  of  honest  labor,  or  anything  of  that  sort. 
I  think  the  trouble  was  that  I  grew  accustomed  to 
the  life,  so  that  the  exhilarating  effects  of  it  wore 
off,  or  got  so  soaked  into  my  system  that  I  began 
to  take  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  And  that, 
naturally,  left  room  for  other  things. 

I  know  I'm  no  good  at  analysis,  and  that's  as 
close  as  I  can  come  to  accounting  for  my  welching, 
the  third  week  out.  You  see,  we  were  working 
south  and  west,  and  getting  farther  and  farther 
away  from — well,  from  the  part  of  country  that  I 
knew  and  liked  best.  It's  kind  of  lonesome,  leav- 
ing old  landmarks  behind  you;  so  when  White  Di- 
vide dropped  down  behind  another  range  of  hills 
and  I  couldn't  turn  in  my  saddle  almost  any  time 

202 


and  see  the  jagged,  blue  sky-line  of  her,  I  stood  it 
for  about  two  days.  Then  I  rolled  my  bed  one 
morning,  caught  out  two  horses  from  my  string  in- 
stead of  one,  told  the  wagon-boss  I  was  going  back 
to  the  ranch,  and  lit  out — with  the  whole  bunch 
grinning  after  me.  As  they  would  have  said,  they 
were  all  "dead  next,"  but  were  good  enough  not 
to  say  so.  Or,  perhaps,  they  remembered  the  box- 
ing-lessons I  had  given  them  in  the  bunk-house  a 
year  or  more  ago. 

I  did  feel  kind  of  sneaking,  quitting  them  like 
that;  but  it's  like  playing  higher  than  your  logical 
limit :  you  know  you're  doing  a  fool  thing,  and  you 
want  to  plant  your  foot  violently  upon  your  own 
person  somewhere,  but  you  go  right  ahead  in  the 
face  of  it  all.  They  didn't  have  to  tell  me  I  was 
acting  like  a  calf  that  has  lost  his  mother  in  the 
herd.  (You  know  he  is  prone  to  go  mooning  back 
to  the  last  place  he  was  with  her,  if  it's  ten  miles.) 
I  knew  it,  all  right.  And  when  I  topped  a  hill  and 
saw  the  high  ridges  and  peaks  of  White  Divide 
stand  up  against  the  horizon  to  the  north,  I  was  so 

203 


The    Range     Dwellers 

glad  I  felt  ashamed  of  myself  and  called  one  Ellis 
Carleton  worse  names  than  I'd  stand  to  hear  from 
anybody  else. 

Still,  to  go  back  to  the  metaphor,  I  kept  on  shov- 
ing in  chips,  just  as  if  I  had  a  chance  to  win  out 
and  wasn't  the  biggest,  softest-headed  idiot  the 
Lord  ever  made.  Why,  even  Perry  Potter  almost 
grinned  when  I  came  riding  up  to  the  corral;  and 
I  caught  the  fellow  that  was  kept  on  at  the  ranch, 
lowering  his  left  lid  knowingly  at  the  cook,  when 
I  went  in  to  supper  that  first  night.  But  I  was  too 
far  gone  then  to  care  much  what  anybody  thought ; 
so  long  as  they  kept  their  mouths  shut  and  left  me 
alone,  that  was  all  I  asked  of  them.  Oh,  I  was  a 
heroic  figure,  all  right,  those  days. 

On  a  day  in  June  I  rode  dispiritedly  over  to  the 
little  butte  just  out  from  the  mouth  of  the  pass. 
Not  that  I  expected  to  see  her;  I  went  because  I 
had  gotten  into  the  habit  of  going,  and  every  nice 
morning  just  simply  pulled  me  over  that  way,  no 
matter  how  much  I  might  want  to  keep  away.  That 

204 


The     Range     Dwellers 

argues  great  strength  of  character  for  me,  I  know, 
but  it's  unfortunately  the  truth. 

I  knew  she  was  back — or  that  she  should  be  back, 
if  nothing  had  happened  to  upset  their  plans.  Edith 
had  written  me  that  they  were  all  coming,  and  that 
they  would  have  two  cars,  this  summer,  instead  of 
just  one,  and  that  they  expected  to  stay  a  month. 
She  and  her  mother,  and  Beryl  and  Aunt  Lodema, 
Terence  Weaver — deuce  take  him  f — and  two  other 
fellows,  and  a  Gertrude — somebody — I  forget  just 
who.  Edith  hoped  that  I  would  make  my  peace 
with  Uncle  Homer,  so  they  could  see  something  of 
me.  (If  I  had  told  her  how  easy  it  was  to  make 
peace  with  "Uncle  Homer,"  and  how  he  had  turned 
me  down,  she  might  not  have  been  quite  so  sure 
that  it  was  all  my  bull-headedness.)  She  com- 
plained that  Gertrude  was  engaged  to  one  of  the 
fellows,  and  so  was  awfully  stupid;  and  Beryl 
might  as  well  be 

I  tore  up  the  letter  just  there,  and  the  wind, 
which  was  howling  that  day,  caught  the  pieces  and 
took  them  over  into  North  Dakota ;  so  I  don't  know 

205 


The     Range     Dwellers 

what  else  Edith  may  have  had  to  tell  me.  I'd  read 
enough  to  put  me  in  a  mighty  nasty  temper  at  any 
rate,  so  I  suppose  its  purpose  was  accomplished. 
Edith  is  like  all  the  rest :  If  she  can  say  anything 
to  make  a  man  uncomfortable  she'll  do  it,  every 
time. 

This  day,  I  remember,  I  went  mooning  along, 
thinking  hard  things  about  the  world  in  general, 
and  my  little  corner  of  it  in  particular.  The  coun- 
try was  beginning  to  irritate  me,  and  I  knew  that  if 
something  didn't  break  loose  pretty  soon  I'd  be  off 
somewhere.  Riding  over  to  little  buttes,  and  not 
meeting  a  soul  on  the  way  or  seeing  anything  but 
a  bare  rock  when  you  get  there,  grows  monotonous 
in  time,  and  rather  gets  on  the  nerves  of  a  fellow. 

When  I  came  close  up  to  the  butte,  however,  I 
saw  a  flutter  of  skirts  on  the  pinnacle,  and  it  made 
a  difference  in  my  gait ;  I  went  up  all  out  of  breath, 
scrambling  as  if  my  life  hung  on  a  few  seconds,  and 
calling  myself  a  different  kind  of  fool  for  every  step 
I  took.  I  kept  assuring  myself,  over  and  over,  that 
it  was  only  Edith,  and  that  there  was  no  need  to  get 

206 


The     Range     Dwellers 

excited  about  it.  But  all  the  while  I  knew,  down 
deep  down  in  the  thumping  chest  of  me,  that  it 
wasn't  Edith.  Edith  couldn't  make  all  that  dis- 
turbance in  my  circulatory  system,  not  in  a  thou- 
sand years. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  same  rock,  and  she  was 
dressed  in  the  same  adorable  riding  outfit  with  a 
blue  wisp  of  veil  wound  somehow  on  her  gray  felt 
hat,  and  the  same  blue  roan  was  dozing,  with  drag- 
ging bridle-reins,  a  few  rods  down  the  other  side  of 
the  peak.  She  was  sketching  so  industriously  that 
she  never  heard  me  coming  until  I  stood  right  at 
her  elbow. 

It  might  have  been  the  first  time  over  again,  ex- 
cept that  my  mental  attitude  toward  her  had 
changed  a  lot. 

"That's  better ;  I  can  see  now  what  you're  trying 
to  draw,"  I  said,  looking  down  over  her  shoulder 
— not  at  the  sketch ;  it  might  have  been  a  sea  view, 
for  all  I  knew — but  at  the  pink  curve  of  her  cheek, 
which  was  growing  pinker  while  I  looked. 

She  did  not  glance  up,  or  even  start ;  so  she  must 
207 


The     Range     Dwellers 

have  known,  all  along,  that  I  was  headed  her  way. 
She  went  on  making  a  lot  of  marks  that  didn't  seem 
to  fit  anywhere,  and  that  seemed  to  me  a  bit  wob- 
bly and  uncertain.  I  caught  just  the  least  hint  of 
a  smile  twitching  the  corner  of  her  mouth — I 

wanted  awfully  to  kiss  it!  i 

i 
"Yes?    I  believe  I  have  at  last  got  everything — 

King's  Highway — in  the  proper  perspective  and  the 

proper  proportion,"  she  said,  stumbling  a  bit  over 

i 

the  alliteration — and  no  wonder.  It  was  a  sentence 
to  stampede  cattle;  but  I  didn't  stampede.  I 

s 

wanted,  more  than  ever,  to  kiss — but  I  won't  be  like 
Barney,  if  I  can  help  it. 

"It's  too  far  off — too  unattainable,"  I  criticized 
— meaning  something  more  than  her  sketch  of  the 
pass.  "And  it's  too  narrow.  If  a  fellow  rode  in 
there  he  would  have  to  go  straight  on  through; 
there  wouldn't  be  a  chance  to  turn  back." 

"Ergo,  a  fellow  shouldn't  ride  in,"  she  retorted, 
with  a  composure  positively  wicked,  considering  my 
feelings.  "Though  it  does  seem  that  a  fellow  rather 

208 


The     Range     Dwellers 

enjoys  going  straight  on  through,  regardless  of 
anything;  promises,  for  instance." 

That  was  the  gauntlet  I'd  been  hoping  for.  From 
the  minute  I  first  saw  her  there  it  flashed  upon  me 
that  she  was  astonished  and  indignant  that  night 
when  she  saw  Frosty  and  me  come  charging 
through  the  pass,  after  me  telling  her  I  wouldn't  do 
it  any  more.  It  looked  to  me  like  I'd  have  to  square 
myself,  so  I  was  glad  enough  of  the  chance. 

"Sometimes  a  fellow  has  to  do  things  regardless 
of — promises,"  I  explained.  "Sometimes  it's  a  mat- 
ter of  life  and  death.  If  a  fellow's  father,  for  in- 
stance  " 

"Oh,  I  know ;  Edith  told  me  all  about  it."  Her 
tone  was  curious,  and  while  it  did  not  encourage 
further  explanations  or  apologies,  it  also  lacked  ab- 
solution of  the  offense  I  had  committed. 

I  sat  down  in  the  grass,  half-facing  her  to  better 
my  chance  of  a  look  into  her  eyes.  I  was  consumed 
by  a  desire  to  know  if  they  still  had  the  power  to 
send  crimply  waves  all  over  me.  For  the  rest,  she 
was  prettier  even  than  I  remembered  her  to  be,  and 

209 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  could  fairly  see  what  little  sense  or  composure  I 
had  left  slide  away  from  me.  I  looked  at  her  fatu- 
ously, and  she  looked  speculatively  at  a  sharp  ridge 
of  the  divide  as  if  that  sketch  were  the  only  thing 
around  there  that  could  possibly  interest  her. 

"Why  do  you  spend  every  summer  out  here  in 
the  wilderness?"  I  asked,  feeling  certain  that  noth- 
ing but  speech  could  save  me  from  going  hopelessly 
silly. 

She  turned  her  eyes  calmly  toward  me,  and — 
their  power  had  not  weakened,  at  all  events.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  taken  hold  of  a  battery  with  all  the 
current  turned  on. 

"Why,  I  suppose  I  like  it  here  in  summer. 
You're  here,  yourself ;  don't  you  like  it  ?" 

I  wanted  to  say  something  smart,  there,  and  I 
have  thought  of  a  dozen  bright  remarks  since ;  but 
at  the  time  I  couldn't  think  of  a  blessed  thing  that 
came  within  a  mile  of  being  either  witty  or  epigram- 
matic. Love-making  was  all  new  to  me,  and  I  saw 
right  then  that  I  wasn't  going  to  shine.  I  finally 
did  remark  that  I  should  like  it  better  if  her  father 

210 


The     Range     Dwellers 

would  be  less  belligerent  and  more  peaceful  as  a 
neighbor. 

"You  told  me,  last  summer,  that  you  enjoyed 
keeping  up  the  feud,"  she  reminded,  smiling  whim- 
sically down  at  me. 

She  made  a  wrong  play  there ;  she  let  me  see  that 
she  did  remember  some  things  that  I  said.  It 
boosted  my  courage  a  notch. 

"But  that  was  last  summer,"  I  countered.  "One 
can  change  one's  view-point  a  lot  in  twelve  months. 
Anyway,  you  knew  all  along  that  I  didn't  mean  a 
word  of  it." 

"Indeed!"  It  was  evident  that  she  didn't  quite 
like  having  me  take  that  tone. 

"Yes,  'indeed'!"  I  repeated,  feeling  a  rebellion 
against  circumstances  and  at  convention  growing 
stronger  within  me.  Why  couldn't  I  put  her  on  my 
horse  and  carry  her  off  and  keep  her  always?  I 
wondered  crazily.  That  was  what  I  wanted  to  do. 

"Do  you  ever  mean  what  you  say,  I  wonder?"  she 
mused,  biting  her  pencil-point  like  a  schoolgirl  when 

211 


The     Range     Dwellers 

she  can't  remember  how  many  times  three  goes  into 
twenty-seven. 

"Sometimes.  Sometimes  I  mean  more."  I  set 
my  teeth,  closed  my  eyes — mentally — and  plunged 
insanely,  not  knowing  whether  I  should  come  to 
the  surface  alive  or  knock  my  head  on  a  rock  and 
stay  down.  "For  instance,  when  I  say  that  some 
day  I  shall  carry  you  off  and  find  a  preacher  to 
marry  us,  and  that  we  shall  live  happily  ever  after, 
whether  you  want  to  or  not,  because  I  shall  make 
you,  I  mean  every  word  of  it — and  a  lot  more." 

That  was  going  some,  I  fancy !  I  was  so  scared 
at  myself  I  didn't  dare  breathe.  I  kept  my  eyes 
fixed  desperately  on  the  mouth  of  the  pass,  all 
golden-green  in  the  sunshine;  and  I  remember  that 
my  teeth  were  so  tight  together  that  they  ached 
afterward. 

The  point  of  her  pencil  came  off  with  a  snap. 
I  heard  it,  but  I  was  afraid  to  look.  "Do  you? 
How  very  odd !"  Her  voice  sounded  queer,  as  if  it 
had  been  squeezed  dry  of  every  sort  of  emotion. 
"And— Edith?" 

212 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  looked  at  her  then,  fast- enough.  "Edith?"  I 
stared  at  her  stupidly.  "What  the — what's  Edith 
got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Possibly  nothing" — in  the  same  squeezed  tone. 
"Men  are  so — er — irresponsible;  and  you  say  you 

don't  always  mean Still,  when  a  man  writes 

pages  and  pages  to  a  girl  every  week  for  nearly  a 
year,  one  naturally  supposes " 

"Oh,  look  here !"  I  was  getting  desperate  enough 
to  be  a  bit  rough  with  her.  "Edith  doesn't  care  a 
rap  about  me,  and  you  know  it.  And  she  knows  I 
don't  care,  and — and  if  anybody  had  anything  to 
say,  it  would  be  your  Mr.  Terence  Weaver." 

"My  Mr.  Terence  Weaver?"  She  was  looking 
down  at  me  sidewise,  in  a  perfectly  maddening  way. 
"You  are  really  very— er — funny,  Mr.  Carleton." 

"Well,"  I  rapped  out  between  my  teeth,  "I  don't 
feel  funny.  I  feel " 

"No?    But,  really,  you  know,  you  act  that  way." 

I  saw  she  was  getting  all  the  best  of  it — and,  in 
my  opinion,  that  would  kill  what  little  chance  a  man 
might  have  with  a  girl.  I  set  deliberately  about 

213 


The     Range     Dwellers 

breaking  through  that  crust  of  composure,  if  I  did 
nothing  more. 

"That  depends  on  the  view-point,"  I  grinned. 
"Would  you  think  it  funny  if  I  carried  you  off — 
really,  you  know — and — er — married  you  and 
made  you  live  happy " 

"You  seem  to  insist  upon  the  happy  part  of  it, 
which  is  not  at  all " 

"Necessary?"  I  hinted. 

"Plausible,"  she  supplied  sweetly. 

"But  would  you  think  it  funny,  if  I  did  ?" 

She  regarded  her  broken  pencil  ruefully — or  pre- 
tended to — and  pinched  her  brows  together  in  deep 
meditation.  Oh,  she  was  the  most  maddening  bit 

of  young  womanhood But,  there,  no  Barney 

for  me. 

"I — might,"  she  decided  at  last.  "It  would  be 
rather  droll,  you  know,  and  I  wonder  how  you'd 
manage  it;  I'm  not  very  tiny,  and  I  rather  think  it 
wouldn't  be  easy  to — er — carry  me  off.  Would  you 
wear  a  mask — a  black  velvet  mask?  I  should  in- 
sist upon  black  velvet.  And  would  you  say :  'Gad- 

214 


The     Range     Dwellers 

zooks,  madam!  I  command  you  not  to  scream!' 
Would  you?"  She  leaned  toward  me,  and  her  eyes 
— well,  for  downright  torture,  women  are  at  times 
perfectly  fiendish. 

I  caught  her  hand,  and  I  held  it,  too,  in  spite  of 
her.  That  far  I  was  master. 

"No,"  I  told  her  grimly.  "If  I  saw  that  you  were 
going  to  do  anything  so  foolish  as  to  scream,  I 
should  just  kiss  you,  and — kiss  you  till  you  were 
glad  to  be  sensible  about  it." 

Well,  she  tried  first  to  look  calmly  amused;  then 
she  tried  to  look  insulted,  and  to  freeze  me  into 
sanity.  She  ended,  however,  by  looking  a  good  bit 
confused,  and  by  blushing  scarlet.  I  had  won  that 
far.  I  kept  her  hand 'held  tight  in  mine;  I  could 
feel  it  squirm  to  get  away,  and  it  felt — oh,  thun- 
der! 

"Let's  play  something  else,"  she  said,  after  a  long 
minute.  "I — I  never  did  admire  highwaymen  par- 
ticularly, and  I  must  go  home." 

"No,    you     mustn't,"     I     contradicted.       "You 

must " 

215 


The     Range     Dwellers 

She  looked  at  me  with  those  wonderful,  heavy- 
lashed  eyes,  and  her  lips  had  a  little  quiver  as  if 

Oh,  I  don't  know,  but  I  let  go  her  hand,  and  I  felt 
like  a  great,  hulking  brute  that  had  been  teasing  a 
child  till  it  cried. 

"All  right,"  I  sighed,  "I'll  let  you  go  this  time. 
But  I  warn  you,  little  girl.  If — no,  when  I  find 
you  out  from  King's  Highway  by  yourself  again, 
that  kidnaping  is  sure  going  to  come  off.  The  Lord 
intended  you  to  be  Mrs.  Ellis  Carleton.  And  forty 
feuds  and  forty  fathers  can't  prevent  it.  I  don't 
believe  in  going  against  the  decrees  of  Providence; 
a  wise  Providence." 

She  bit  her  lip  at  the  corner.  "You  must  have 
a  little  private  Providence  of  your  own,"  she  re- 
torted, with  something  like  her  old  assurance.  "I'm 
sure  mine  never  hinted  at  such  a — a  fate  for  me. 
And  one  feud  is  as  good  as  forty,  Mr.  Carleton.  If 
you  are  anything  like  your  father,  I  can  easily  un- 
derstand how  the  feud  began.  The  Kings  and  the 
Carletons  are  fond  of  their  own  way." 

216 


The'  Range     Dwellers 

"Thy  way  shall  be  my  way,"  I  promised  rashly, 
just  because  it  sounded  smart. 

"Thank  you.  Then  there  will  be  no  melo- 
dramatic abductions  in  the  shadow  of  White  Di- 
vide," she  laughed  triumphantly,  "and  I  shall  es- 
cape a  most  horrible  fate!"  She  went,  still  laugh- 
ing, down  to  where  her  horse  was  waiting. 

I  followed — rather,  I  kept  pace  with  her.  "All 
the  same,  I  dare  you  to  ride  out  alone  from  King's 
Highway  again,"  I  defied.  "For,  if  you  do,  and 
I  find  you " 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Carleton.  You'd  be  splendid  in 
vaudeville,"  she  mocked  from  her  saddle,  where 
she  had  got  with  all  the  ease  of  a  cowboy,  without 
any  help  from  me.  "Black  velvet  mask  and  gad- 
zooks,  madam — I  must  certainly  tell  Edith.  It  will 
amuse  her,  I'm  sure." 

"No,  you  won't  tell  Edith,"  I  flung  after  her,  but 
I  don't  know  if  she  heard. 

She  rode  away  down  the  steep  slope,  the  roan 
leaning  back  stiffly  against  the  incline,  and  I  stood 
watching  her  like  a  fool.  I  didn't  think  it  would  be 

217 


The     Range     Dwellers 

good  policy  to  follow  her.  I  tried  to  roll  a  ciga- 
rette— in  case  she  might  look  back  to  see  how  I 
was  taking  her  last  shot.  But  she  didn't,  and  I 
threw  the  thing  away  half-made.  It  was  a  case 
where  smoke  wouldn't  help  me. 

If  I  hadn't  made  my  chance  any  better,  I  knew  I 
couldn't  very  well  make  it  worse;  but  there  was 
mighty  little  comfort  in  that  reflection.  And  what 
a  bluff  I  had  put  up !  Carry  her  off  and  marry  her  ? 
Lord  knows  I  wanted  to,  badly  enough !  But 


218 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Frosty  Disappears. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  ranch  I  overtook  Frosty 
mooning  along  at  a  walk,  with  his  shoulders 
humped  in  the  way  a  man  has  when  he's  thinking 
pretty  hard.  I  had  left  Frosty  with  the  round-up, 
and  I  was  pretty  much  surprised  to  see  him  here. 
I  didn't  feel  in  the  mood  for  conversation,  even 
with  him ;  but,  to  be  decent,  I  spurred  up  alongside 
and  said  hello,  and  where  had  he  come  from? 
There  was  nothing  in  that  for  a  man  to  get  uppish 
about,  but  he  turned  and  actually  glared  at  me. 

"I  might  be  an  inquisitive  son-of-a-gun  and  ask 
you  the  same  thing,"  he  growled. 

"Yes,  you  might,"  I  agreed.  "But,  if  you  did, 
I'd  be  apt  to  tell  you  to  depart  immediately  for  a 
place  called  Gehenna — which  is  polite  for  hell." 

"Well,  same  here,"  he  retorted  laconically;  and 
219 


The     Range     Dwellers 

that  ended  our  conversation,  though  we  rode  stirrup 
to  stirrup  for  eight  miles. 

I  can't  say  that,  after  the  first  shock  of  surprise, 
I  gave  much  time  to  wondering  what  brought 
Frosty  home.  I  took  it  he  had  had  a  row  with  the 
wagon-boss.  Frosty  is  an  independent  sort  and 
won't  stand  a  word  from  anybody,  and  the  wagon- 
boss  is  something  of  a  bully.  The  gait  they  were 
traveling,  out  there  with  the  wagons,  was  fraying 
the  nerves  of  the  whole  bunch  before  I  left.  And 
that  was  all  I  thought  about  Frosty. 

I  had  troubles  of  my  own,  about  that  time.  I 
had  put  up  my  bluff,  and  I  kept  wondering  what  I 
should  do  if  Beryl  King  called  me.  There  wasn't 
much  chance  that  she  would,  of  course;  but,  still, 
she  wasn't  that  kind  of  girl  who  always  does  the 
conventional  thing  and  the  expected  thing,  and  I 
had  seen  a  gleam  in  'her  eyes  that,  in  a  man's,  I 
should  call  deviltry,  pure  and  simple.  If  I  should 
meet  her  out  somewhere,  and  she  even  looked  a 

dare I'll  confess  one  thing:  for  a  whole  week 

I  was  mighty  shy  of  riding  out  where  I  would  be 

220 


The     Range     Dwellers 

apt  to  meet  her;  and  you  can  call  me  a  coward  if 
you  like. 

Still,  I  had  schemes,  plenty  of  them.  I  wanted 
her — Lord  knows  how  I  wanted  her! — and  I  got 
pretty  desperate,  sometimes.  Once  I  saddled  up 
with  the  fixed  determination  of  riding  boldly — and 
melodramatically — into  King's  Highway,  facing  old 
King,  and  saying :  "Sir,  I  love  your  daughter.  Let 
bygones  be  bygones.  Dad  and  I  forgive  you,  and 
hope  you  will  do  the  same.  Let  us  have  peace,  and 
let  me  have  Beryl "  or  something  to  that  effect. 

He'd  only  have  done  one  of  two  things ;  he'd  have 
taken  a  shot  at  me,  or  he'd  have  told  me  to  go  to 
the  same  old  place  where  we  consign  unpleasant 
people.  But  I  didn't  tempt  him,  though  I  did  tempt 
fate.  I  went  over  to  the  litle  butte,  climbed  it  pen- 
sively, and  sat  on  the  flat  rock  and  gazed  for- 
lornly at  the  mouth  of  the  pass. 

I  had  the  rock  to  myself,  but  I  made  a  discovery 
that  set  the  nerves  of  me  jumping  like  a  man  just 
getting  over  a — well,  a  season  of  dissipation.  In 

221 


The     Range     Dwellers 

the  sandy  soil  next  the  rock  were  many  confused 
footprints — the  prints  of  little  riding-boots;  and 
they  looked  quite  fresh.  She  had  been  there,  all 
right,  and  I  had  missed  her!  I  swore,  and  won- 
dered what  she  must  think  of  me.  Then  I  had  an 
inspiration.  I  rolled  and  half-smoked  eight  ciga- 
rettes, and  scattered  the  stubs  with  careful  care- 
lessness in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  rock.  I 
put  my  boots  down  in  a  clear  spot  of  sand  where 
they  left  marks  that  fairly  shouted  of  my  presence. 
Then  I  walked  off  a  few  steps  and  studied  the  ef- 
fect with  much  satisfaction.  When  she  came  again, 
she  couldn't  fail  to  see  that  I  had  been  there ;  that  I 
had  waited  a  long  time — she  could  count  the  ciga- 
rette stubs  and  so  form  some  estimate  of  the  time — 
and  had  gone  away,  presumably  in  deep  disappoint- 
ment. Maybe  it  would  make  her  feel  a  little  less 
sure  of  herself,  to  know  that  I  was  camping  thus 
earnestly  on  her  trail.  I  rode  home,  feeling  a  good 
deal  better  in  my  mind. 

That  night  it  rained  barrelsful.     I  laid  and  lis- 
tened to  it,  and  gritted  my  teeth.     Where  was  all 

222 


The     Range     Dwellers 

my  cunning  now  ?  Where  were  those  blatant  foot- 
prints of  mine  that  were  to  give  their  own  eloquent 
message?  I  could  imagine  just  how  the  water  was 
running  in  yellow  streams  off  the  peak  of  that  butte. 
Then  it  came  to  me  that,  at  all  events,  some  of  the 
cigarette-stubs  would  be  left;  so  I  turned  over  and 
went  to  sleep. 

I  wish  to  say,  before  I  forget  it,  that  I  don't 
think  I  am  deceitful  by  nature.  You  see,  it  changes 
a  fellow  a  lot  to  get  all  tangled  up  in  his  feelings 
over  a  girl  that  doesn't  seem  to  care  a  rap  for  you. 
He  does  things  that  are  positively  idiotic.  At  any 
rate,  I  did.  And  I  could  sympathize  some  with  Bar- 
ney MacTague;  only,  his  girl  had  a  crooked  nose 
and  no  eyebrows  to  speak  of,  so  he  hadn't  the  ex- 
cuse that  I  had.  Take  a  girl  with  eyes  like 
Beryl 

A  couple  of  days  after  that — days  when  I  hadn't 
the  nerve  to  go  near  the  little  butte — Frosty  drew 
six  months'  wages  and  disappeared  without  a  word 
to  anybody.  He  didn't  come  back  that  night,  and 

223 


The     Range     Dwellers 

the  next  day  Perry  Potter,  who  knows  well  the 
strange  freaks  cowboys  will  sometimes  take  when 
they  have  been  working  steadily  for  a  long  time, 
suggested  that  I  ride  over  to  Kenmore  and  see  if 
Frosty  was  there,  and  try  my  powers  of  persuasion 
on  him — unless  he  was  already  broke;  in  which 
case,  according  to  Perry  Potter,  he  would  come  back 
without  any  persuading.  Perry  Potter  added  dryly 
that  it  wouldn't  be  out  of  my  way  any,  and  would 
only  be  a  little  longer  ride.  I  must  say  I  looked  at 
him  with  suspicion.  The  way  that  little  dried-up 
sinner  found  out  everything  was  positively  un- 
canny. 

Frosty,  as  I  soon  discovered,  was  not  in  Ken- 
more.  He  had  been,  for  I  learned  by  inquiring 
around  that  he  had  passed  the  night  there  at  the 
one  little  hotel.  Also  that  he  had,  not  more  than 
two  hours  before — or  three,  at  most — hired  a  rig 
and  driven  on  to  Osage.  A  man  told  me  that  he 
had  taken  a  lady  with  him ;  but,  knowing  Frosty  as 
I  did,  I  couldn't  quite  swallow  that.  It  was  queer, 
though,  about  his  hiring  a  rig  and  leaving  his  sad- 

224 


The     Range     Dwellers 

die-horse  there  in  the  stable.  I  couldn't  under- 
stand it,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  buy  into  Frosty's  af- 
fairs unless  I  had  to.  I  ate  my  dinner  dejectedly  in 
the  hotel — the  dinner  was  enough  to  make  any  man 
dejected — and  started  home  again. 


225 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Broken  Motor-car. 

Out  where  the  trail  from  Kenmore  intersects  the 
one  leading  from  Laurel  to  and  through  King's 
Highway,  I  passed  over  a  little  hill  and  came  sud- 
denly upon  a  big,  dark-gray  touring-car  stalled  in 
the  road.  In  it  Beryl  King  sat  looking  intently 
down  at  her  toes.  I  nearly  fell  off  my  horse  at  the 
shock  of  it,  and  then  my  blood  got  to  acting  funny, 
so  that  my  head  felt  queer.  Then  I  came  to,  and 
rode  boldly  up  to  her,  mentally  shaking  hands  with 
myself  over  my  good  luck.  For  it  was  good  luck 
just  to  see  her,  whether  anything  came  of  it  or  not. 

"Something  wrong  with  the  wheelbarrow?"  I 
asked  her,  with  a  placid  superiority. 

She  looked  up  with  a  little  start — she  never  did 
seem  to  feel  my  presence  until  I  spoke  to  her — and 
frowned  prettily;  but  whether  at  me  or  at  the  car, 
I  didn't  know. 

226 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"I  guess  something  must  be,"  she  answered  quite 
meekly,  for  her.  "It  keeps  making  the  funniest 
buzz  when  I  start  it — and  it's  Mr.  Weaver's  car, 

and  he  doesn't  know I — I  borrowed  it  without 

asking,  and 

"That  car  is  all  right,"  I  bluffed  from  my  sad- 
dle. "It's  simply  obeying  instructions.  It  comes 
under  the  jurisdiction  of  my  private  Providence, 
you  see.  I  ordered  it  that  you  should  be  here,  and 
in  distress,  and  grateful  for  my  helping  hand." 
How  was  that  for  straight  nerve? 

"Well,  then,  let's  have  the  helping  hand  and  be 
done.  I  should  be  at  home,  by  now.  They  will 

wonder I  just  went  for  a — a  little  spin,  and 

when  I  turned  to  go  back,  it  started  that  funny 
noise.  I — I'm  afraid  of  it.  It — might  blow  up,  or 
— or  something." 

She  seemed  in  a  strangely  explanatory  mood,  that 
was,  to  say  the  least,  suspicious.  Either  she  had 
come  out  purposely  to  torment  me,  or  she  was 
afraid  of  what  she  knew  was  in  my  mind,  and 
wanted  to  make  me  forget  it.  But  my  mettle  was 

227 


The     Range     Dwellers 

up  for  good.     I  had  no  notion  of  forgetting,  or  of 
letting  her. 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,  and  willingly,"  I  told  her 
coolly.  "It  looks  like  a  good  car — an  accommodat- 
ing car.  I  hope  you  are  prepared  to  pay  the  pen- 
alty  " 

"Penalty?"  she  interrupted,  and  opened  her  eyes 
at  me  innocently;  a  bit  too  innocently,  I  may  say. 

"Penalty;  yes.  The  penalty  of  letting  me  find 
you  outside  of  King's  Highway,  alone/'  I  explained 
brazenly. 

She  tried  a  lever  hurriedly,  and  the  car  growled 
up  at  her  so  that  she  quit.  Then  she  pulled  herself 
together  and  faced  me  nonchalantly. 

"Oh-h.  You  mean  about  the  black  velvet  mask? 
I'm  afraid — I  had  forgotten  that  funny  little — 
joke."  With  all  she  could  do,  her  face  and  her  tone 
were  not  convincing. 

I  gathered  courage  as  she  lost  it.  "I  see  that  I 
must  demonstrate  to  you  the  fact  that  I  am  not 
altogether  a  joke,"  I  said  grimly,  and  got  down 
from  my  horse. 

228 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  don't,  to  this  day,  know  what  she  imagined  I 
was  going  to  do.  She  sat  very  still;  the  kind  of 
stillness  a  rabbit  adopts  when  he  hopes  to  escape 
the  notice  of  an  enemy.  I  could  see  that  she  hardly 
breathed,  even. 

But  when  I  reached  her,  I  only  got  a  wrench  out 
of  the  tool-box  and  yanked  open  the  hood  to  see 
what  ailed  the  motor.  I  knew  something  of  that 
make  of  car;  in  fact,  I  had  owned  one  before  I  got 
the  Yellow  Peril,  and  I  had  a  suspicion  that  there 
wasn't  much  wrong;  a  loosened  nut  will  sometimes 
sound  a  good  deal  more  serious  than  it  really  is. 
Still,  a  half-formed  idea — a  perfectly  crazy  idea — 
made  me  go  over  the  whole  machine  very  carefully 
to  make  sure  she  was  all  right. 

When  I  was  through  I  stood  up  and  found  that 
she  was  regarding  me  curiously,  yet  with  some 
amusement.  She  seemed  to  feel  herself  mistress  of 
the  situation,  and  to  consider  me  as  an  interesting 
plaything.  I  didn't  approve  that  attitude. 

"At  all  events,"  she  said  when  she  met  my  eyes, 
and  speaking  as  if  there  had  been  no  break  in  our 

229 


The     Range     Dwellers 

conversation,  "you  are  rather  a  good  joke.  Thank 
you  so  much." 

I  put  away  the  wrench,  fastened  the  lid  of  the 
tool-box,  and  then  I  faced  her  grimly.  "I  see  mere 
words  are  wasted  on  you,"  I  said.  "I  shall  have 
to  carry  you  off — Beryl  King;  I  shall  carry  you  off 
if  you  look  at  me  that  way  again !" 

She  did  look  that  way,  only  more  so.  I  wonder 
what  she  thought  a  man  was  made  of,  to  stand  it. 
I  set  my  teeth  hard  together. 

"Have  you  got  the — er — the  black  velvet  mask  ?" 
she  taunted,  leaning  just  the  least  bit  toward  me. 
Her  eyes — I  say  it  deliberately — were  a  direct  chal- 
lenge that  no  man  could  refuse  to  accept  and  feel 
himself  a  man  after. 

"Mask  or  no  mask — you'll  see!"  I  turned  away 
to  where  my  horse  was  standing  eying  the  car  with 
extreme  disfavor,  picked  up  the  reins,  and  glanced 
over  my  shoulder;  I  didn't  know  but  she  would 
give  me  the  slip.  She  was  sitting  very  straight, 
with  both  hands  on  the  wheel  and  her  eyes  looking 
straight  before  her.  She  might  have  been  posing 

230 


The     Range     Dwellers 

for  a  photograph,  from  the  look  of  her.  I  tied  the 
reins  with  a  quick  twist  over  the  saddle-horn  and 
gave  him  a  slap  on  the  rump.  I  knew  he  would 
go  straight  home.  Then  I  went  back  and  stepped 
into  the  car  just  as  she  reached  down  and  started 
the  motor.  If  she  had  meant  to  run  away  from  me 
she  had  been  just  a  second  too  late.  She  gave  me 
a  sidelong,  measuring  glance,  and  gasped.  The 
car  slid  easily  along  the  trail  as  if  it  were  listening 
for  what  we  were  going  to  say. 

"I  shall  drive,"  I  announced  quietly,  taking  her 
hands  gently  from  the  wheel.  She  moved  over  to 
make  room  mechanically,  as  if  she  didn't  in  the 
least  understand  this  new  move  of  mine.  I  know 
she  never  dreamed  of  what  was  really  in  my  heart 
to  do. 

"You  will  drive — where?"  her  voice  was  politely 
freezing. 

"To  find  that  preacher,  of  course,"  I  answered, 
trying  to  sound  surprised  that  she  should  ask.  I 
sent  the  speed  up  a  notch. 

231 


The     Range     Dwellers 

"You — you  never  would  dare!"  she  cried  breath- 
lessly, and  a  little  anxiously. 

"The  deuce  I  wouldn't!"  I  retorted,  and  laughed 
in  the  face  of  her.  It  was  queer,  but  my  thoughts 
went  back,  for  just  a  flash,  to  the  time  Barney  had 
dared  me  to  drive  the  Yellow  Peril  up  past  the  Cliff 
House  to  Sutro  Baths.  I  had  the  same  heady  ela- 
tion of  daredeviltry.  I  wouldn't  have  turned  back, 
then,  even  if  I  hadn't  cared  so  much  for  her. 

She  didn't  say  anything  more,  and  I  sent  the  car 
ahead  at  a  pace  that  almost  matched  the  mood  I 
was  in,  and  that  brought  White  Divide  sprinting  up 
to  meet  us.  The  trail  was  good,  and  the  car  was  a 
dandy.  I  was  making  straight  for  King's  High- 
way as  the  best  and  only  chance  of  carrying  out 
my  foolhardy  design.  I  doubt  if  any  bold,  bad 
knight  of  old  ever  had  the  effrontery  to  carry  his 
lady-love  straight  past  her  own  door  in  broad  day- 
light. 

Yet  it  was  the  safest  thing  I  could  do.  I  meant 
to  get  to  Osage,  and  the  only  practicable  route  for 
a  car  lay  through  the  pass.  To  be  sure,  there  was 

232 


The     Range     Dwellers 

a  preacher  at  Kenmore;  but  with  the  chance  of  old 
King  being  there  also  and  interrupting  the  cere- 
mony— supposing  I  brought  matters  successfully 
that  far — with  a  shot  or  two,  did  not  in  the  least 
appeal  to  me.  I  had  made  sure  that  there  was 
plenty  of  gasoline  aboard,  so  I  drove  her  right 
along. 

"I  hope  your  father  isn't  home,"  I  remarked 
truthfully  when  we  were  slipping  into  the  wide  jaws 
of  the  pass. 

"He  is,  though;  and  so  is  Mr.  Weaver.  I  think 
you  had  better  jump  out  here  and  run  home,  or  it  is 
not  a  velvet  mask  you  will  need,  but  a  mantle  of  in^ 
visibility."  I  couldn't  make  much  of  her  tone,  but 
her  words  implied  that  even  yet  she  would  not  take 
me  seriously. 

"Well,  I've  neither  mask  nor  mantle,"  I  said. 
"But  the  way  I  can  fade  down  the  pass  will,  I 
think,  be  a  fair  substitute  for  both." 

She  said  nothing  whatever  to  that,  but  she  began 
to  seem  interested  in  the  affair — as  she  had  need  to 
be.  She  might  have  jumped  out  and  escaped  while 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  was  down  opening  the  gate — but  she  didn't.  She 
sat  quite  still,  as  if  we  were  only  out  on  a  common- 
place little  jaunt.  I  wondered  if  she  didn't  have 
the  spirit  of  adventure  in  her  make-up,  also.  Girls 
do,  sometimes.  When  I  had  got  in  again,  I  turned 
to  her,  remembering  something. 

"Gadzooks,  madam!  I  command  you  not  to 
scream,"  I  quoted  sternly. 

At  that,  for  the  first  time  in  our  acquaintance, 
she  laughed;  such  a  delicious,  rollicky  little  laugh 
that  I  felt  ready,  at  the  sound,  to  face  a  dozen 
fathers  and  they  all  old  Kings. 

As  we  came  chugging  up  to  the  house,  several 
faces  appeared  in  the  doorway  as  if  to  welcome  and 
scold  the  runaway.  I  saw  old  King  with  his  pipe 
in  his  mouth;  and  there  were  Aunt  Lodema  and 
Weaver.  They  were  all  smiling  at  the  escapade — 
Beryl's  escapade,  that  is — and  I  don't  think  they 
realized  just  at  first  who  I  was,  or  that  I  was  in 
any  sense  a  menace  to  their  peace  of  mind. 

When  we  came  opposite  and  showed  no  disposi- 
tion to  stop,  or  even  to  slow  up,  I  saw  the  smiles 

234 


The     Range     Dwellers 

freeze  to  amazement,  and  then — but  I  hadn't  the 
time  to  look.  Old  King  yelled  something,  but  by 
that  time  we  were  skidding  around  the  first  shed, 
where  Shylock  had  been  shot  down  on  my  last  trip 
through  there.  It  was  a  new  shed,  I  observed 
mechanically  as  we  went  by.  I  heard  much  shout- 
ing as  we  disappeared,  but  by  that  time  we  were 
almost  through  the  gantlet.  I  made  the  last  turn 
on  two  wheels,  and  scudded  away  up  the  open  trail 
of  the  pass. 


235 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

One  More  Race. 

A  faint  toot-toot  warned  from  behind. 

"They've  got  out  the  other  car,"  said  Beryl,  a 
bit  tremulously ;  and  added,  "it's  a  much  bigger  one 
than  this." 

I  let  her  out  all  I  dared  for  the  road  we  were 
traveling;  and  then  there  we  were,  at  that  blessed 
gate.  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  till  we  were  almost 
upon  it,  but  it  didn't  take  much  thought ;  there  was 
only  one  thing  to  do,  and  I  did  it. 

I  caught  Beryl  by  an  arm  and  pulled  her  down  to 
the  floor  of  the  car,  not  taking  my  eyes  from  the 
trail,  or  speaking.  Then  I  drove  the  car  forward 
like  a  cannon-ball.  We  hit  that  gate  like  a  locomo- 
tive, and  scarcely  felt  the  jar.  I  knew  the  make 
of  that  motor,  and  what  it  could  do.  The  air  was 
raining  splinters  and  bits  of  lamps,  but  we  went 
right  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  as  fast  as 

236 


The     Range     Dwellers 

the  winding  trail  would  allow.  I  knew  that  beyond 
the  pass  the  road  ran  straight  and  level  for  many 
a  mile,  and  that  we  could  make  good  time  if  we  got 
the  chance. 

Beryl  sat  half-turned  in  the  seat,  glancing  back; 
but  for  me,  I  was  busy  watching  the  trail  and  ta- 
king the  sharp  turns  in  a  way  to  lift  the  hair  of  one 
not  used  to  traveling  by  lightning.  I  will  confess 
it  was  ticklish  going,  at  that  pace,  and  there  were 
places  when  I  took  longer  chances  than  I  had  any 
right  to  take.  But,  you  see,  I  had  Beryl — and  I 
meant  to  keep  her. 

That  Weaver  fellow  must  have  had  a  bigger 
bump  of  caution  than  I,  or  else  he'd  never  raced. 
I  could  hear  them  coming,  but  they  didn't  seem  to 
be  gaining;  rather,  they  lost  ground,  if  anything. 
Presently  Beryl  spoke  again,  still  looking  back. 

"Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Carleton,  this  joke  has 
gone  far  enough?  You  have  demonstrated  what 
you  could  do,  if " 

I  risked  both  our  lives  to  glance  at  her.  "This 
joke,"  I  said,  "is  going  to  Osage.  I  want  to  marry 

237 


The     Range     Dwellers 

you,  and  you  know  it.  The  Lord  and  this  car  will- 
ing, I'm  going  to.  Still,  if  you  really  have  been 
deceived  in  my  intentions,  and  insist  upon  going 
back,  I  shall  stop,  of  course,  and  give  you  back  to 
your  father.  But  you  must  do  it  now,  at  once,  or 
— marry  me." 

She  gave  me  a  queer,  side  glance,  but  she  did  not 
insist.  Naturally  I  didn't  stop,  either. 

We  shot  out  into  the  open,  with  the  windings  of 
the  pass  behind,  and  then  I  turned  the  old  car  loose, 
and  maybe  we  didn't  go!  She  wasn't  a  bad  sort — 
but  I  would  have  given  a  good  deal,  just  then,  if 
she  had  been  the  Yellow  Peril  stripped  for  a  race. 
I  could  hear  the  others  coming  up,  and  we  were 
doing  all  we  could ;  I  saw  to  that. 

"I  think  they'll  catch  us,"  Beryl  observed  mali- 
ciously. "Their  car  is  a  sixty  h.  p.  Mercedes,  and 
this " 

"Is  about  a  forty,"  I  cut  in  tartly,  not  liking  the 
tone  of  her;  "and  just  plain  American  make.  But 
don't  you  fret,  my  money's  on  Uncle  Sam." 

She  said  no  more ;  indeed,  it  wasn't  easy  to  talk, 
238 


with  the  wind  drawing  the  breath  right  out  of 
your  lungs.  She  hung  onto  her  hat,  and  to  the  seat, 
and  she  had  her  hands  full,  let  me  tell  you. 

The  purr  of  their  motor  grew  louder,  and  I  didn't 
like  the  sound  of  it  a  bit.  I  turned  my  head  enough 
to  see  them  slithering  along  close — abominably 
close.  I  glimpsed  old  King  in  the  tonneau,  and 
Weaver  humped  over  the  wheel  in  an  unpleasantly 
businesslike  fashion. 

I  humped  over  my  own  wheel  and  tried  to  coax 
her  up  a  bit,  as  if  she  had  been  the  Yellow  Peril 
at  the  wind-up  of  a  close  race.  For  a  minute  I  felt 
hopeful.  Then  I  could  tell  by  the  sound  that 
Weaver  was  crowding  up. 

"They're  gaining,  Mr.  Carleton!"  Beryl's  voice 
had  a  new  ring  in  it,  and  I  caught  my  breath. 

"Can  you  get  here  and  take  the  wheel  and  hold 
her  straight  without  slowing  her?"  I  asked,  looking 
straight  ahead.  The  trail  was  level  and  not  a  bend 
in  it  for  half  a  mile  or  so,  and  I  thought  there  was 
a  chance  for  us.  "I've  a  notion  that  friend  Weaver 
has  nerves.  I'm  going  to  rattle  him,  if  I  can;  but 

239 


The     Range     Dwellers 

whatever  happens,  don't  loose  your  grip  and  spill 
us  out.  I  won't  hurt  them." 

Her  hands  came  over  and  touched  mine  on  the 
wheel.  "I've  raced  a  bit  myself,"  she  said  simply. 
"I  can  drive  her  straight." 

I  wriggled  out  of  the  way  and  stood  up,  glan- 
cing down  to  make  sure  she  was  all  right.  She 
certainly  didn't  look  much  like  the  girl  who  was 
afraid  because  something  "made  a  funny  noise."  I 
suspected  that  she  knew  a  lot  about  motors. 

A  bullet  clipped  close.  Beryl  set  her  teeth  into 
her  lips,  but  grittily  refrained  from  turning  to 
look.  I  breathed  freer. 

"Now,  don't  get  scared,"  I  warned,  balanced 
myself  as  well  as  I  could  in  the  swaying  car,  and 
sent  a  shot  back  at  them. 

Weaver  came  up  to  my  expectations.  He 
ducked,  and  the  car  swerved  out  of  the  trail  and 
went  wavering  spitefully  across  the  prairie.  Old 
King  sent  another  rifle-bullet  my  way — I  must  have 
made  a  fine  mark,  standing  up  there — and  he  was 

240 


The     Range     Dwellers 

a  good  shot.     I  was  mighty  glad  he  was  getting 
jolted  enough  to  spoil  his  aim. 

Weaver  came  to  himself  a  bit  and  grabbed  fran- 
tically for  brake  and  throttle  and  steering-wheel  all 
at  once,  it  looked  like.  He  was  rattled,  all  right; 
he  must  have  given  the  wheel  a  twist  the  wrong 
way,  for  their  car  hit  a  jutting  rock  and  went  up  in 
the  air  like  a  pitching  bronco,  and  old  King  sailed  in 
a  beautiful  curve  out  of  the  tonneau. 

I  was  glad  Beryl  didn't  see  that.  I  watched,  not 
breathing,  till  I  saw  Weaver  scramble  into  view,  and 
Beryl's  dad  get  slowly  to  his  feet  and  grope  about 
for  his  rifle;  so  I  knew  there  would  be  no  funeral 
come  of  it.  I  fancy  his  language  was  anything  but 
mild,  though  by  that  time  we  were  too  far  away  to 
hear  anything  but  the  faint  churning  of  their  motor 
as  their  wheels  pawed  futilely  in  the  air. 

They  were  harmless  for  the  present.  Their  car 
tilted  ungracefully  on  its  side,  and,  though  I  hadn't 
any  quarrel  with  Weaver,  I  hoped  his  big  Mer- 
cedes was  out  of  business.  I  put  away  my  gun,  sat 
down,  and  looked  at  Beryl. 

241 


The     Range     Dwellers 

She  was  very  white  around  the  mouth,  and  her 
hat  was  hanging  by  one  pin,  I  remember ;  but  her 
eyes  were  fixed  unswervingly  upon  the  brown  trail 
stretching  lazily  across  the  green  of  the  grass-land, 
and  she  was  driving  that  big  car  like  an  old  hand. 

"Well?"  her  voice  was  clear,  and  anxious,  and 
impatient. 

"It's  all  right,"  I  said.  I  took  the  wheel  from 
her,  got  into  her  place,  and  brought  the  car  down 
to  a  six-mile  gait.  "It's  all  right,"  I  repeated  tri- 
umphantly. "They're  out  of  the  race — for  awhile, 
at  least,  and  not  hurt,  triat  I  could  see  Just  plain, 
old-fashioned  mad.  Don't  look  like  that,  Beryl  t" 
I  slowed  the  car  more.  "You're  glad,  aren't  you? 
And  you  will  marry  me,  dear?" 

She  leaned  back  panting  a  little  from  the  strain 
of  the  last  half-hour,  and  did  things  to  her  hat.  I 
watched  her  furtively.  Then  she  let  her  eyes  meet 
mine;  those  dear,  wonderful  eyes  of  hers!  And 
her  mouth  was  half-smiling,  and  very  tender. 

"You  silly!"  That's  every  word  she  said,  on  my 
oath. 

242 


The     Range     Dwellers 

But  I  stopped  that  car  dead  still  and  gathered 

her  into  my  arms,  and Oh,  well,  I  won't  trail 

off  into  sentiment,  you  couldn't  appreciate  it  if  I 
did. 

It's  a  mercy  Weaver's  car  was  done  for,  or  they 
could  have  walked  right  up  and  got  their  hands  on 
us  before  we'd  have  known  it. 


243 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  Final  Reckoning. 

About  four  o'clock  we  reached  the  ferry,  just  be- 
hind a  fagged-out  team  and  a  light  buggy  that  had 
in  it  two  figures— one  of  whom,  at  least,  looked 
familiar  to  me. 

"Frosty,  by  all  that's  holy!"  I  exclaimed  when 
we  came  close  enough  to  recognize  a  man.  "I  clean 
forgot,  but  I  was  sent  to  Kenmore  this  morning  to 
find  that  very  fellow." 

"Don't  you  know  the  other?"  Beryl  laughed  teas- 
ingly.  "I  was  at  their  wedding  this  morning,  and 
•wished  them  God-speed.  I  never  dreamed  I  should 
be  God-speeded  myself,  directly!  I  drove  Edith 
over  to  Kenmore  quite  early  in  the  car,  and " 

"Edith!" 

"Certainly,  Edith.  Whom  else?  Did  you  think 
she  would  be  left  behind,  pining  at  your  infidelity? 
Didn't  you  know  they  are  old,  old  sweethearts  who 

244 


The     Range     Dwellers 

had  quarreled  and  parted  quite  like  a  story?  She 
used  to  read  your  letters  so  eagerly  to  see  if  you 
made  any  remark  about  him;  you  did,  quite  often, 
you  know.  I  drove  her  over  to  Kenmore,  and  after- 
ward went  off  toward  Laurel  just  to  put  in  the  time 
and  not  arrive  home  too  soon  without  her — which 
might  have  been  awkward,  if  father  took  a  notion 
to  go  after  her.  I'm  so  glad  we  came  up  with 
them."  She  stood  up  and  waved  her  hand  at  Edith. 

I  shouted  reassurances  to  Frosty,  who  was  look- 
ing apprehensively  back  at  us.  But  it  was  a  facer.. 
I  had  never  once  suspected  them  of  such  a  thing. 

"Well,"  I  greeted,  when  we  overtook  them  and 
could  talk  comfortably;  "this  is  luck.  When  we  get 
across  to  Pochette's  you  can  get  in  with  us,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Miller,  and  add  the  desired  touch  of  pro- 
priety to  our  wedding." 

They  did  some  staring  themselves,  then,  and 
Beryl  blushed  delightfully — just  as  she  did  every- 
thing else.  She  was  growing  an  altogether  be- 
witching bit  of  femininity,  and  I  kept  thanking  my 
private  Providence  that  I  had  had  the  nerve  to  kid- 

245 


The     Range     Dwellers 

nap  her  first  and  take  chances  on  her  being  willing. 
Honest,  I  don't  believe  I'd  ever  have  got  her  in  any 
other  way. 

When  we  stopped  at  Pochette's  door  the  girls  ran 
up  and  tangled  their  arms  around  each  other  and 
wasted  enough  kisses  to  make  Frosty  and  me  swear. 
And  they  whispered  things,  and  then  laughed  about 
it,  and  whispered  some  more,  and  all  we  could  hear 
was  a  gurgle  of  "You  dear!"  and  the  like  of  that. 
Frosty  and  I  didn't  do  much;  we  just  looked  at 
each  other  and  grinned.  And  it's  long  odds  we  un- 
derstood each  other  quite  as  well  as  the  girls  did 
after  they'd  whispered  and  gurgled  an  hour. 

We  had  an  early  dinner — or  supper — and  ate 
fried  bacon  and  stewed  prunes — and  right  there  I 
couldn't  keep  the  joke,  but  had  to  tell  the  girls 
about  how  Frosty  and  I  had  deviled  Beryl's  father, 
that  time.  They  could  see  the  point,  all  right,  and 
they  seemed  to  appreciate  it,  too. 

After  that,  we  all  talked  at  once,  sometimes ;  and 
sometimes  we  wouldn't  have  a  thing  to  say — times 
when  the  girls  would  look  at  each  other  and  smile, 

246 


The     Range     Dwellers 

with  their  eyes  all  shiny.  Frosty  and  I  would  look 
at  them,  and  then  at  each  other;  and  Frosty's  eyes 
were  shiny,  too. 

Then  we  went  on,  with  the  motor  purring  love- 
songs  and  sliding  the  miles  behind  us,  while  Frosty 
and  Edith  cooed  in  the  tonneau  behind  us,  and 
didn't  thank  us  to  look  around  or  interrupt.  Beryl 
and  I  didn't  say  much ;  I  was  driving  as  fast  as  was 
wise,  and  sometimes  faster.  There  was  always  the 
chance  that  the  other  car  would  come  slithering 
along  on  our  trail.  Besides,  it  was  enough  just  to 
know  that  this  was  real,  and  that  Beryl  would 
marry  me  just  as  soon  as  we  found  a  preacher. 
There  was  no  incentive  to  linger  along  the  road. 

It  yet  lacked  an  hour  of  sunset  when  we  slid  into 
Osage  and  stopped  before  a  little  goods-box  church, 
with  a  sample  of  the  same  style  of  architecture 
chucked  close  against  one  side. 

We  left  the  girls  with  the  preacher's  wife,  and 
Frosty  wrote  down  our  ages — Beryl  was  twenty- 
one,  if  you're  curious — and  our  parents'  names  and 
where  we  were  born,  and  if  we  were  black  or 

247 


The     Range     Dwellers 

white,  and  a  few  other  impertinent  things  which 
he,  having  been  through  it  himself,  insisted  was 
necessary.  Then  he  hustled  out  after  the  license, 
while  I  went  over  to  the  dry-goods  and  jewelry 
store  to  get  a  ring.  I  will  say  that  Osage  puts  up  a 
mighty  poor  showing  of  wedding-rings. 

We  were  married.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  stop 
now  and  describe  just  how  it  was,  and  what  the 
bride  wore,  and  a  list  of  the  presents.  But  it  didn't 
last  long  enough  to  be  clear  in  my  mind.  Every- 
thing is  a  bit  hazy,  just  there.  I  dropped  the  ring,  I 
know  that  for  certain,  because  it  rolled  under  an 
article  of  furniture  that  looked  suspiciously  like  a 
folding-bed  masquerading  as  a  cabinet,  and  Frosty 
had  to  get  down  on  all  fours  and  fish  it  out  before 
we  could  go  on.  And  Edith  put  her  handkerchief 
to  her  mouth  and  giggled  disreputably.  But,  any- 
way, we  got  married. 

The  preacher  gave  Beryl  an  impressive  lily-and- 
rose  certificate,  which  caused  her  much  embarrass- 
ment, because  it  would  not  go  into  any  pocket  of 
hers  or  mine,  but  must  be  carried  ostentatiously 

248 


The     Range     Dwellers 

in  the  hand.  I  believe  Edith  was  a  bit  jealous  of 
that  beflowered  roll.  Her  preacher  had  been  out 
of  certificates,  and  had  made  shift  with  a  plain, 
undecorated  sheet  of  foolscap  that  Frosty  said 
looked  exactly  like  a  home-made  bill  of  sale.  I  told 
Edith  she  could  paint  some  lilies  around  the  edge, 
and  she  flounced  out  with  her  nose  in  the  air. 

We  had  decided  that  we  must  go  back  in  the 
morning  and  face  the  music.  We  had  no  desire  to 
be  arrested  for  stealing  Weaver's  car,  and  there 
was  not  a  man  in  Osage  who  could  be  trusted  to 
drive  it  back.  Then  the  girls  needed  a  lot  of  things ; 
and  though  Frosty  had  intended  to  take  the  next 
train  East,  I  persuaded  him  to  go  back  and  wait  for 
us. 

Beryl  said  she  was  almost  sure  her  father  would 
be  nice  about  it,  now  there  was  no  good  in  being 
anything  else.  I  think  that  long  roll  of  stiff  paper 
went  a  long  way  toward  strengthening  her  confi- 
dence; she  simply  could  not  conceive  of  any  father 
being  able  to  resist  its  appeal  and  its  look  of  finality. 

We  all  got  into  the  car  again,  and  went  up  to  the 
249 


The     Range     Dwellers 

station,  so  I  might  send  a  wire  to  dad.  It  seemed 
only  right  and  fair  to  let  him  know  at  once  that  he 
had  a  daughter  to  be  proud  of. 

"Good  Lord !"  I  broke  out,  when  we  were  nearly 
to  the  depot.  "If  that  isn't — do  any  of  you  notice 
anything  out  on  the  side-track,  over  there?"  I 
pointed  an  unsteady  ringer  toward  the  purple  and 
crimson  sunset. 

"A  maroon-colored  car,  with  dark-green " 

Beryl  began  promptly. 

"That's  it,"  I  cut  in.  "I  was  afraid  joy  had  gone 
to  my  head  and  was  making  me  see  crooked.  It's 
dad's  car,  the  Shasta.  And  I  wonder  how  the 
deuce  she  got  here?" 

"Probably  by  the  railroad,"  said  Edith  flippantly. 

I  drove  over  to  the  Shasta,  and  we  stopped.  I 
couldn't  for  the  life  of  me  understand  her  being 
there.  I  stared  up  at  the  windows,  and  nodded 
dazedly  to  Crom,  grinning  down  at  me.  The  next 
minute,  dad  himself  came  out  on  the  platform. 

"So  it's  you,  Ellie?"  he  greeted  calmly.  "I 
thought  Potter  wasn't  to  let  you  know  I  was  com- 

250 


The     Range     Dwellers 

ing;  he  must  be  getting  garrulous  as  he  grows  old. 
However,  since  you  are  here,  I'm  very  glad  to  see 
you,  my  boy." 

"Hello,  dad,"  I  said  meekly,  and  helped  Beryl 
out.  I  wasn't  at  all  sure  that  I  was  glad  to  see  him, 
just  then.  Telling  dad  face  to  face  was  a  lot  differ- 
ent from  telling  him  by  telegraph.  I  swallowed. 

"Dad,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Miss — Mrs.  Beryl 
King — that  is,  Carleton;  my  wife."  I  got  that  last 
word  out  plain  enough,  at  any  rate. 

Dad  stared.  For  once  I  had  rather  floored  him. 
But  he's  a  thoroughbred,  all  right;  you  can't  feaze 
him  for  longer  than  ten  seconds,  and  then  only  in 
extreme  cases.  He  leaned  down  over  the  rail  and 
held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mrs.  Beryl  King — 
that  is,  Carleton,"  he  said,  mimicking  me.  "Come 
up  and  give  your  dad-in-law  a  proper  welcome." 

Beryl  did.  I  wondered  how  long  it  had  been 
since  dad  had  been  kissed  like  that.  It  made  me 
gulp  once  or  twice  to  think  of  all  he  had  missed. 

Frosty  and  Edith  came  up,  then,  and  Edith  shook 
251 


The     Range     Dwellers 

hands  with  dad  and  I  introduced  Frosty.  Five  min- 
utes, there  on  the  platform,  went  for  explanations. 
Dad  didn't  say  much ;  he  just  listened  and  sized  up 
the  layout.  Then  he  led  us  through  the  vestibule 
into  the  drawing-room.  And  I  knew,  from  the  look 
of  him,  that  we  would  get  his  verdict  straight.  But 
it  was  a  relief  not  to  see  his  finger-tips  together. 

"Perry  Potter  wrote  me  something  of  all  this," 
he  observed,  settling  himself  comfortably  in  his  pet 
chair.  "He  said  this  young  cub  needed  looking 
after,  or  King — your  father,  Mrs.  Carleton — would 
have  him  by  the  heels.  I  thought  I'd  better  come 
and  see  what  particular  brand  of — er 

"As  for  the  motor,  I  might  make  shift  to  take  it 
back  myself,  seeing  Potter  hasn't  got  a  rig  here  to 
meet  me.  And  if  you'd  like  a  little  jaunt  in  the 
Shasta,  you  four,  you're  welcome  to  her  for  a  cou- 
ple of  weeks  or  so.  I'm  not  going  back  right  away. 
Ellis  has  done  his  da — er — is  married  and  off  my 
hands,  so  I  can  take  a  vacation  too.  I  can  arrange 
transportation  over  any  lines  you  want,  before  I 
start  for  the  ranch.  Will  that  do?" 

252 


The     Range     Dwellers 

I  guess  he  found  that  it  would,  from  the  way 
Edith  and  Beryl  made  for  him. 

Frosty  glanced  out  of  the  window  and  motioned 
to  me.  I  looked,  and  we  both  bolted  for  the  door, 
reaching  it  just  as  old  King's  foot  was  on  the  lower 
step  of  the  platform.  Weaver,  looking  like  chief 
mourner  at  a  funeral,  was  down  below  in  his  car. 
King  came  up  another  step,  glaring  and  evidently 
in  a  mood  for  war  and  extermination. 

"How  d'y'  do,  King?"  Dad  greeted  over  my 
shoulder,  before  I  could  say  a  word.  He  may  not 
have  had  his  finger-tips  together,  but  he  had  the 
finger-tip  tone,  all  right,  and  I  knew  it  was  a  good 
man  who  would  get  the  better  of  him.  "Out  look- 
ing for  strays  ?  Come  right  up ;  I've  got  two  brand- 
new  married  couples  here,  and  I  need  some  sane 
person  pretty  bad  to  help  me  out."  There  was  the 
faintest  possible  accent  on  the  sane. 

Say,  it  was  the  finest  thing  I  had  ever  seen  dad 
do.  And  it  wasn't  what  he  said,  so  much  as  the 
way  he  said  it.  I  knew  then  why  he  had  such  a 
record  for  getting  his  own  way. 

253 


The     Range     Dwellers 

King  swallowed  hard  and  glared  from  dad  to  me, 
and  then  at  Beryl,  who  had  come  up  and  laid  my 
arm  over  her  shoulder — where  it  was  perfectly 
satisfied  to  stay.  There  was  a  half-minute  when  I 
didn't  know  whether  King  would  shoot  somebody, 
or  have  apoplexy. 

"You're  late,  father,"  said  Beryl  sweetly,  dis- 
playing that  blessed  certificate  rather  conspicuously. 
"If  you  had  only  hurried  a  little,  you  might  have 
been  in  time  for  the  we-wedding." 

I  squeezed  my  arm  tight  in  approval,  and  came 
near  choking  her.  King  gasped  as  if  somebody  had 
an  arm  around  his  neck,  too,  and  was  squeezing. 

"Oh,  well,  you're  here  now,  and  it's  all  right," 
put  in  dad  easily,  as  though  everything  was  quite 
commonplace  and  had  happened  dozens  of  times  to 
us.  "Crom  will  have  dinner  ready  soon,  though  as 
he  and  Tony  weren't  notified  that  there  would  be  a 
wedding-party  here,  I  can't  promise  the  feast  I'd 
like  to.  .Still,  there's  a  bottle  or  two  good  enough 
to  drink  even  their  happiness  in,  Homer.  Just  send 
your  chauffeur  down  to  the  town,  and  come  in." 

254 


The     Range     Dwellers 

(Good  one  on  Weaver,  that — and,  the  best  part  of 
it  was,  he  heard  it.) 

King  hesitated  while  I  could  count  ten — if  I 
counted  fast  enough — and  came  in,  following  us 
all  back  through  the  vestibule.  Inside,  he  looked 
me  over  and  drew  his  hand  down  over  his  mouth; 
I  think  to  hide  a  smile. 

"Young  man,  yuh  seem  born  to  leave  a  path  uh 
destruction  behind  yuh,"  he  said.  "There's  a  lot  uh 
fixing  to  be  done  on  that  gate — and  I  don't  reckon 
I  ever  will  find  the  padlock  again." 

His  eyes  met  the  keen,  steady  look  of  dad,  stopped 
there,  wavered,  softened  to  friendliness.  Their 
hands  went  out  half-shy ly  and  met.  "Kids  are  sure 
terrors,  these  days,"  he  remarked,  and  they  laughed 
a  little.  "Us  old  folks  have  got  to  stand  in  the 
corners  when  they're  around." 


King's  Highway  is  open  trail.  Beryl  and  I  go- 
through  there  often  in  the  Yellow  Peril,  since  dad 
gave  me  outright  the  Bay  State  Ranch  and  all  per- 

255 


taining  thereto — except,   of  course,   Perry  Potter; 
he  stays  on  of  his  own  accord. 

Frosty  is  father  King's  foreman,  and  Aunt  Lo- 
dema  went  back  East  and  stayed  there.  She  writes 
prim  little  letters  to  Beryl,  once  in  awhile,  and  I 
gather  that  she  doesn't  approve  of  the  match  at  all. 
But  Beryl  does,  and,  if  you  ask  me,  I  approve  also. 
So  what  does  anything  else  matter? 

THE    END. 


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